


All Of MY Tears Have Been Used Up (On Another Love)

by RiverSoul



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Doctorsavestheday, Evil!Mycroft, M/M, Omega Sherlock, Parallel Universes, Sass, butnottoomanyipromise, postreichenbachfeels, tears&joy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-01-18 16:03:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 26,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1434427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverSoul/pseuds/RiverSoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternative universe, omega Sherlock is under the control of his brutal alpha brother, Mycroft. In this universe, John Watson still hasn't recovered from his best friend's death. Will there be a happy ending for both of them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rules Have To Be Obeyed

“Eat up now.“ 

“Yes, Sir,“ Sherlock said. He had given up on disobeying his older brother. The electric collar around his neck seemed to know even when he THOUGHT something wrong in front of Mycroft. And he had been punished before. Sherlock could endure quite a bit of pain, but the electric shocks the collar caused when Mycroft pushed a button on his wrist band cause pain beyond everything Sherlock could even think of. He had even BEGGED for it to stop once. Maybe it was good that his parents had not been alive to witness this. Even though Mycroft claimed that they would have approved of his way of educating his younger brother. But Sherlock couldn’t remember how his parents had been like. He had deleted his memory in a desperate attempt to create more space for important information. Now there was no more important information anymore. There was nothing in this world for him. 

“Show me your arms,” Mycroft commanded. His brother complied. The last time he had cut himself had been weeks ago. Punishment for hurting yourself was even harder than for refusing to eat. After he had finished his meal, Sherlock went back up into his flat. In the bathroom, he put his finger into his mouth and got rid of the calories which slowed his body down. His brother still had to find out about this trick. He had installed cameras all over the flat, but not in the bathroom, as Mycroft was very fond of ‘decency’. In fact, he often told his younger brother how fortunate he was that he hadn't been raped yet. This also was a common punishment for misbehaving omegas. But Mycroft only used every other form of corporal and psychological punishment he could think of. 

Sherlock snorted at that. Sooner or later he would (die) faint and then Mycroft would either have to watch him in the bathroom or give up on his form of “education”. Sherlock lay down on his sofa, staring at the ceiling. When he had realized that there wasn't a way round learning an omega’s duties, he had learnt them all in a fortnight. Now that he knew everything about cooking, sewing and child care which was humanly possible, he had all the time in the world until his brother would find a suitable alpha for him.

But Sherlock didn’t care about free time anymore. He just waited for the time to pass until he would finally be allowed to sleep. And then face another day. And another. And another. Maybe his alpha would be weak and it would be possible to escape from him. Maybe not. Sherlock had almost given up hope. Since their parents had died, Mycroft had been his legal guardian. And he had used his power ruthlessly. Coming “off age” hadn’t helped either, even though Sherlock had managed to keep the inevitable off as long as possible. But at 21, his body had finally started to give off omega hormones and had almost driven Sherlock crazy for 5 days, 7 hours and 21 minutes. Since then, his heats had come regularly and had sometimes lasted even longer. Sherlock hated his body for betraying him like that. Almost as much as he hated the “toys” they had given him to ease the pain.

A knock on the door disturbed his thoughts. “Come in,” Sherlock barked. He didn’t want to risk a snidy remark and get punished for something that stupid. The door was pushed open and in came a man Sherlock had never seen before. He was gangly and a bit taller than average height, but his eyes were everything else than average. They were of a soft brown and Sherlock felt like he could fall right into them. Most omegas had beautiful eyes, but the younger Holmes had never seen such intensity in them. 

Besides, the man didn’t look like an omega. He had soft, full lips and brown, unruly hair, but he seemed to have purpose. His clothes also gave the impression more of an alpha than of an omega: He was wearing a long brown coat over a blue suit, complete with white shirt, red tie… and red sneakers. No omega would be allowed to wear those shoes to such an outfit! But then alphas usually were very aware of fashion… There was always the possibly of a beta, but the way this man moved…

“Hey there,” the man said, “you don’t know where I can find Mycroft Holmes, can you?” Sherlock snorted. He had come to see his brother, of course. “It’s just because,” the man went on, “I have a bone to pick with this guy. I don’t like the way he treats people. In fact” - at this, the man looked up and right into the eye of the nearest camera - “if I see him ‘punish’ another omega within the next 24 hours, I will make sure that he knows what the word punishment really means.”

Sherlock could only stare at him. “Who are you?”

“I am the Doctor.”

“Doctor Who?”

“The very same,” the Doctor said and smiled at Sherlock, “and I came here to take you away from here.“

“Where to?”

“Does that really matter?“ the Doctor asked with a frown.

“No, I suppose not. But if there are alphas wherever you are taking me, you can spare yourself the trouble and leave me here,” Sherlock explained.

“Fine then,” the Doctor said, “I’ll take you somewhere where there are neither alphas nor omegas. You’re coming now?”

“What are you?” Sherlock asked, “Some crazy alpha who wants to have me for himself without my brother’s permission? Mycroft will never let this happen. ”

The Doctor’s gaze suddenly became soft. “Oh I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. You really don’t know anything else, do you? But I’m not like you and I'm not like him. I'm from far, far away, and I know a place where all humans are equal - well, almost equal. And I will certainly not ask your brother for permission to take you there.”

Sherlock, who was still trying to deduce anything from the Doctor's appearance, said: “Well, you will have to; otherwise we will not get rid of this.” He motioned at his collar. 

The Doctor smiled again and his eyes where gleaming with mischief. He put something out of his pocket which looked remotely like a screwdriver, moved closer to Sherlock and held the device in front of the collar. The screwdriver-thing made a buzzing sound and the collar opened and fell onto the sofa. Sherlock held his breath, but nothing happened for an entire minute. There was no pain and if he could get out of here alive there never would be again. 

He looked at the Doctor in amazement, feeling something like hope for the first time in years. “Can you break the cameras with this as well?”

“Of course,” the Doctor said, doing so with all of the cameras in the two-room apartment, finding every one without fail. However, loud footsteps and voices on the stairs soon put a damper on Sherlock's new-found hope. “They are coming,” he said, his eyes going wide with fear.

“Don’t worry,” the Doctor assured him, “I have fought off worse than a few alpha guards. But then we could just leave through the window, of course.”

“We are on the third floor!” Sherlock shouted, close to panic, “Do I look like Marry Poppins to you?”

“Nice thought, we could borrow your brother’s umbrella,” the Doctor remarked, “but it’s even easier. I’ve parked the Tardis directly under the window. With the open door facing up. God, will she complain tomorrow.” 

Sherlock stared at him, not understanding a word coming out of the Doctor’s mouth. “You have parked what how?”

The Doctor chuckled and opened the window next to Sherlock’s sofa. “You will see, come on.”

Sherlock hesitantly got up and looked out of the window. Directly under him, there was the gaping door of a… blue box. He frowned and remarked: “Even if we survive the fall, how on earth should this stupid little box help us?”

“Oi, don’t let her hear that!,” the Doctor said. The steps and voices were coming closer. “Come on, just jump,” the Doctor said, “It will be fine, you will see. Just trust me!”

Sherlock certainly didn’t trust this strange man with the beautiful eyes, but he imagined dying in a little blue box after jumping from the third floor couldn’t be worse than Mycroft’s punishment for removing the collar.

The moment the door was thrown open, he jumped.


	2. New Worlds

Sherlock hit the inside of the box the Doctor had called 'Tardis' with a loud splash. But Sherlock being Sherlock, he was only confused for the fracture of a second. He had landed in water and his feet didn't touch the ground, which meant he was in some sort of pool. A pool in a box. Sherlock tread water and quickly reached the surface, spitting water. What he saw was fascinating, to say the least. The outside of this box was obviously some sort of optical illusion as it was actually quite big.

The Doctor, who had landed next to him, was already climbing out of the pool. The door of the box had closed again. Some sort of automatic mechanism, probably. But Sherlock decided to look into that later. Something else was more important right now: "Is there some sort of transport here… Doctor?"

The Doctor chuckled. "This IS the transport, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned and looked around, taking in every detail. In this room there was basically just the swimming pool, but next to the door leading outside there was another door. But the architecture seemed somehow wrong… more like the architecture of a building than of something which could move. Certainly not a plane. Could it be…?

"You have a pool in a space ship? Isn't that a bit impractical? Where does the water go when you are in space? Or do you only use it when it's stationary?"

The Doctor, who was standing next to the pool now, drying himself up with a blanket, chuckled again: "It is a space ship, alright, but otherwise it's a bit more complicated than you might think. But no time for explanations right now. We have to get going, allons-y!"

With that, the Doctor dropped the blanket and dashed out of the second door Sherlock had noticed. Sherlock got out of the pool, trying to process the information. So they were in a space ship? But wouldn't they need space suits then? Or could the Tardis produce an artificial gravity field? But this didn't make any sense… Then again, the Doctor had talked about a place where everyone was 'equal', whatever that meant. Could it be that he had meant… on another planet? That seemed to be logical, as Sherlock was pretty sure that he knew everything which was going on on THIS planet. But then he couldn't be completely sure, as his brain was filled up with information about baking and cooking...

Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted by a sudden movement of the space ship, which almost swiped him off his feet and back into the pool. At the last moment, Sherlock grabbed the handle of the door… which was strange, because he could have sworn that the door didn't HAVE a handle just a moment ago!

But before Sherlock could solve this mystery, the Doctor peeked out of the other door and said: "Sorry about that. Are you coming?"

"Yes, sure," Sherlock mumbled and carefully balanced over to the Doctor as the space ship started moving in earnest, "Where are we going?"

"Parallel universe, same planet, same time."

Sherlock frowned at that. "Of course same time, what do you mean?"

"Oh, the Tardis can also travel in time, you know."

"You can't travel in time," Sherlock exclaimed.

"Who told you that?" the Doctor asked.

"Everyone knows that," Sherlock answered, but he wasn't happy with this answer himself, so he added: "If you could travel in time, you would change the present and as most humans are basically idiots, they would create massive chaos."

The Doctor nodded. "That's true. So no, not EVERYBODY can travel in time. You need a Tardis for that, or some similar device. And only Time Lords are able to use those devices, as I am one. And they know how NOT to create chaos."

"But they still would," Sherlock said, "Every little thing you change in the past changes the present! Calling yourself 'Time Lord' certainly doesn't change that."

"No, there are certain rules, of course, otherwise you would create a paradox," the Doctor explained, "you are not supposed to meet yourself in the past, for example. And there are fixed points in time, of course, like world wars, deaths of important people etc. But everything else is flexible, as time itself it flexible. If you kill your grandmother, for example, it creates another possibility. You father could have grown up an orphan, or simply been older or someone else. Of course, it could also mean you have never been born, so you would simply... vanish. So I don't recommend killing your ancestors."

"But you still can't travel through time, as it would mean travelling close to the speed of light", Sherlock said and entered the room the Doctor was standing in. It looked like it was the control room. Slowly, all the information buried deep in Sherlock's mind palace, under all the rubbish about changing diapers and baking cookies, became accessible again. Not completely deleted, then. "The closer you get to the speed of time, the more time slows down. And you can't go faster if time slows down until it finally stops!"

"Yes, you can," the Doctor explained, "You just have to look at the extension of Pythagorean theorem for the distance, d, between two points in space: d² = x² + y² + z². x, y and z are the lengths, or more correctly the difference in the co-ordinates, in each of the three spatial directions. This distance remains constant for fixed displacements of the origin.

In Einstein's relativity the same equation is modified to remain constant with respect to displacement (and rotation), but not with respect to motion. For a moving object, at least one of the lengths from which the distance, d, is calculated is contracted relative to a stationary observer. So the equation becomes:

d² = x² + y² + z² (1-v²/c²)1/2

And this implies that the distances all shrink as one moves faster, so does this mean there are no constant distances left in the universe? Of course there are! Because of Einstein's revolutionary concept of space-time where time is distance and distance is time! So now:

s² = x² + y² + z² - ct²

And this new distance s – the Space-time – does indeed remain constant for all who are in relative motion."

Sherlock could only stare at the Doctor. "This actually makes sense. But you said something about a parallel universe. What about that?"

"Well," the Doctor said, "if you see time as moving forward and backward, parallel universes are to the left and to the right. They are basically the same as your time and space, but with slight changes. Which can be big changes for you. It's all a bit wibbly-wobbly, really. Usually, the Tardis can't move 'sideways' as this would take aspects from one parallel universe to the other, but sometimes there are holes in the universe, which repair themselves if they are small enough. But I thought, as I'm already here, I could take you back with me. And the Tardis needed some time to regain energy anyway, so..."

Sherlock didn't understand exactly what the Doctor meant by wibbly-wobbly, but took it to mean something like 'not yet explained by scientists'. "So the hole will close behind us, won't it?"

"Yes," the Doctor said, "but we should find a place in the other universe for you. There are so many humans that they sometimes loose count themselves."

Sherlock smiled at that. "Don't you pity them as well, sometimes?", he asked, "they should be so BORED with their funny little brains."

"Pity them?", the Doctor asked, "No, I envy them. They are happy in their little worlds. It's us whom I pity."


	3. Baker Street Irregular

John was making tea. Actually, he was making tea quite often now. It had almost replaced the cases he used to solve with Sherlock. Of course, Baker Street wasn’t the same without the detective, but John had gotten used to that. Sherlock’s brother had provided him with everything he needed in life, so John didn’t have to work anymore. He spent most of his time at home now, making tea, reading books and updating his Blog. He re-read old cases, but made new ones up as well. After Harry had called him up to ask what that was all about he had stopped putting them online, though. John didn’t want people to believe that he had gone crazy.

Because he was completely sane. A bit lonely, maybe, but most people were, weren’t they? Of course John could go out there and find a girlfriend… boyfriend, even. Then marry, have kids… But he was pretty sure – hell, he was certain – that he would never love someone as he had loved Sherlock. As he still loved Sherlock. As he would always love him.

John only blamed himself for not realizing earlier that he was in love with the mad genius. But it was not too late to make it up to him. To devote his whole life to Sherlock. After the funeral, he had gone back to Baker Street as quickly as possible, only to break down and cry in peace. He had clutched Sherlock’s favourite robe and buried his face in it, muffling his sobs.

Then he had gone back to Sherlock’s grave, but only once. And not even then had he been able to say the words. He had asked for ‘another miracle’ and then wined to his therapist about the detective’s death.

John almost laughed at the memory. As if that woman even CARED. She got paid for listening to him, for Christ’s sake! And the grave stone couldn’t help him either. John was not even religious, so a dead stone didn’t really mean anything to him. And Sherlock would really prefer him living a happy life, he was sure of that. And so what if he sometimes made two cups of tea instead of one and Mrs. Hudson told him to go out more often every time she saw him? He was still happier than he would ever be pretending he loved or cared for anybody else.

There was a knock on the door. John stopped in his tea-making process. He couldn’t remember the last time somebody had been up here but him. Well, he could, actually. Mycroft had popped in after the funeral to tell him that most of the late detective’s funds were now his. And to pretend he was only pretending to be sad about his brother’s death. Not even Mrs. Hudson could bear to be in the flat after the detective’s death.

“Come in,” John shouted in the general direction of the door, while carrying two cups of tea into the living room. Whoever was visiting might be thirsty. Of course, John had filled two cups before the knock on the door, but he had always been good at self denial.

The door opened and there was… Sherlock. John was so shocked he didn’t even stare. He just looked at Sherlock and Sherlock looked back at him. Suddenly, there was a voice from behind the brunette: “You can go in now, he doesn’t bite.”

Sherlock looked drawn. His cheekbones were even more pronounced than usually and he looked like he hadn’t eaten in ages. But there was something else which was different, something John couldn’t quite but his finger on.

“Hello,” Sherlock said and stepped into the room. Slowly, almost tentative. For a moment, John wondered why that was, then he remembered that the detective was supposed to be dead. It wasn’t really strange to hear Sherlock’s voice again, though. John had never stopped talking to him anyway. And it wasn’t really strange to see him again either, as the detective was constantly in his mind’s eye. The only thing that was strange was that it had taken Sherlock so long.

“2 years, Sherlock,” John said, “you let me wait for two years.” Sherlock looked at him in confusion. “What do you mean? I didn’t let you wait.”

That did it. John exploded: “You are not even sorry! You come here after TWO YEARS and you are not even sorry! What are you confused about, that I didn’t expect you back anymore? That I’m not welcoming you back with open arms? Do you even know what you have done to me, Sherlock?”

When John stopped to take a breath, the man who’s voice he had heard before suddenly stepped in front of Sherlock. He was tall, even a bit taller than the detective, was wearing a blue suit and his brown hair was artfully tousled.

“Stop right there,” the man said, “You are making a mistake.”

John fumed. “You think so? And how is this any of your business? Who are you anyway, his new sidekick? And there I was thinking I was the only one, how STUPID of me!” The doctor laughed mirthlessly.

“I’m sorry,” was all the man said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it affected you so much. I just thought…”

John frowned. “Do I know you? Or has he told you about me? He lies, you know. That’s all he ever does, he lies!” His voice broke and it felt as if something inside him broke, too. All this time, all this waiting and now there was SOMEONE ELSE. It had all been for nothing. So much pain. All for nothing.

“He’s not Sherlock,” the stranger said.

John got up and walked up to Sherlock. “Yes, he is,” he said, frowning. Or was he imagining this? Was he imagining all of this? Had he gone completely round the bend now?

Sherlock just looked back at him. But there was something wrong with his eyes… no, not his eyes, just the way he looked at him. Almost indifferent, maybe a bit curious… Had Sherlock gone round the bend, then?

“Are you ok?”, the doctor asked carefully, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout, if you’re not alright. Have you hit your head or something? Have they done something to you?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know what you are talking about. But I’m not from here, you have to think I’m someone else…”

“Has he lost his memory?”, John addressed the stranger, “Is that what happened? Is that the reason why it took so long for him to come back?”

The stranger smiled sadly. “No, John, he’s simply not your Sherlock. He’s from another universe.”

“From another… yes, sure, that completely makes sense,” John snorted, “Listen, if you two are together, you can just TELL me, ok? I’m not stupid or something.”

“Together?”, Sherlock frowned, “He’s all skin and bones, why would I be interested in him? And he’s not even an alpha!”

“A what?”

“He’s not Sherlock,” the stranger interrupted, “he’s more like… a twin. Like an identical twin, ok? From far, far away. That’s possible, right?” His voice had gone soft. Like a doctor’s voice…

“Ok, who are you?”, John asked. “Are you a doctor? Am I in a hospital right now? Have I cracked up, is that it? Am I imagining all of this?”

The stranger smiled sadly again, his eyes turning soft this time. “No, you will be alright. You are hurt and broken, but you will be alright. I will help you. We will both help you. I’m the Doctor and this is Sherlock, but you can call him William, if that’s easier for you.”

“William?”

“My second name,” Sherlock explained. His eyes hadn’t left John. It was as if he had deduced something, even though his eyes weren’t shining as brightly as they usually did during deduction.

“You have lost someone,” he said slowly, “someone who looks very similar to me… someone who is even CALLED like me.” The not-detective frowned. “And the Doctor said something about parallel universes. So the one you lost IS me. Except he’s not, because I am here and he is not.”

John could only stare at him. What was this lunatic talking about? “Parallel universes?”, he asked.

The Doctor opened his mouth to explain, but Sherlock interrupted him. “It’s a bit like the twins the Doctor was talking about. Your Sherlock and I share the same DNA, but not the same history and memories.”

“Prove it to me,” John said.

Suddenly, Sherlock was in his space. Before John could say anything, Sherlock’s lips were on his. At first, the doctor was too shocked to react, but then he returned the kiss. Sherlock’s lips were soft and plush, just as he had always imagined them. Even if he hadn’t imagined their first kiss like this. In fact, he hadn’t imagined their first kiss at all.

Suddenly, John stepped away from Sherlock. “You are not Sherlock,” he said.

The not-detective smiled. “There you go.”

The Doctor cleared his throat. “We were hoping he could stay here for a while. He’s kind of… in trouble.”

John stared at him. This man… staying here? Sleeping in Sherlock’s bed, drinking from Sherlock’s cup?

“Sherlock would have wanted that,” the Doctor said.

“Sherlock is dead!”, John shouted. He didn’t know where his rage suddenly came from. But he just wanted to tear everyone apart: This ‘Doctor’, this Sherlock-looking stranger, everyone! Who did they think they were just coming into his life like that and trampling on his feelings?

The Doctor just looked at him. “I’m so sorry,” he all but whispered, “but I knew Sherlock and I’m sure he would have helped. He needs someone, you know. He doesn’t know anyone here in this world and I’m only so good at pretending to be human.”

“But why me?”, John asked, “Why did you come here of all places?”

“Because I knew Sherlock,” the Doctor explained, “I used to come round sometimes. A Baker Street irregular, you might say.”


	4. New Home

Sherlock stretched on the bed. On HIS bed. The Doctor had left some time ago, after explaining the most important aspects of Sherlock’s life to John. He had also given some advice, all along the lines of “Leave him alone when he’s in heat, but provide him with water and food”, “Just try to treat him like any other human being otherwise” and “Make sure he’ll find a job and a place in the human world as soon as possible”.

Sherlock sighed. He had excused himself quickly after the Doctor’s departure, feigning tiredness. There was no reason for him to talk to John longer than strictly necessary. Sherlock already hated this place. The ordinarity of it. He should probably be grateful for being ‘rescued’ by the Doctor, but all he could feel was resentfulness. Why did all the interesting people always have to leave?

John was interesting in his own way, of course. But Sherlock preferred not looking at him too much, now he had seen all the pain the doctor had to cope with. It was like Sherlock had seen into the man’s eyes and straight into his soul. And what he had seen was the saddest thing in the world (or in all the worlds he supposed): an alpha permanently separated from his omega.

Maybe they didn’t have the words ‘omega’ and ‘alpha’ in this world, but Sherlock had seen it clear as daylight: John was a broken man, not because he had lost his flatmate and friend, but because he had lost his other half. And from John’s behaviour it was also clear that the doctor had been the more dominant one in the relationship and if Sherlock’s DNA was anything to go by, the late detective had had an omega-like personality.

The worst, though, was that John didn’t seem ‘bonded’. He didn’t look like a grieving man, but like a man waiting… waiting for what could now never happen. Omegas never had any trouble reading people’s feelings, a gift which Sherlock had never loathed as much as he did now. This look in John’s eyes when he had realized that Sherlock wasn’t ‘his’ Sherlock! Not only had it reminded the doctor of his friend’s death, but it had also made it clear to him that the detective would never come back.

John could have lived with the hope of his friend coming back some day. But now his dreams had been shattered. The Doctor probably thought that Sherlock could somehow make John Watson happy again, but that seemed rather unlikely. “Sherlock is dead!”, John had shouted. And Sherlock DID feel quite dead. It wasn’t like he missed ‘home’, but at least he had had a place there, a purpose. And he didn’t believe he could ever be of any purpose here. The other Sherlock had solved crimes for a living, but just the thought of talking to a crime victim made Sherlock shudder. What if he had to talk to a rape victim, for example? He would feel the victim’s pain as if it was his own and not only that, he would be able to relate to the fear of being raped again.

And what if somebody tried to rape him? Just because there weren’t any alphas around didn’t mean he was less vulnerable during his heats as he had been ‘at home’. Sherlock groaned and cursed the Doctor for leaving him alone like that.

There was a soft knock on the door. “Come in,” Sherlock shouted. Tentatively, John entered, carrying a bowl of steaming soup. “The Doctor said you haven’t eaten, you must be hungry,” he said.

Sherlock growled and turned around, his back now facing the doctor. “Not hungry, go away.”

“Listen,” John said, “If you really have his DNA, you will be just as difficult as he was, especially when it comes to food and sleep. But you are only skin and bones and I will certainly not let you starve yourself.”

“What do you care?”, Sherlock mumbled.

John sighed. “This is difficult for me too, you know? I know you but I don’t know you, but just to think of how much you remind me…” His voice broke.

“You don’t want me,” Sherlock said, “And the Doctor left me. I have no purpose here, I have no purpose anywhere.”

“Yes, you do,” the doctor said firmly, “Everybody has. Mycroft will help to make sure everybody thinks you’re his brother and then you can go on with Sherlock’s work or do something completely different; whatever you want, really.”

Sherlock turned around again and almost leaped from the bed. “Mycroft is here?”, he asked, eyes wide. His heart was suddenly beating much too quickly.

“Yes, of course he is,” John answered, frowning, “Don’t you also have a brother?”

Sherlock shuddered. “Yes, I do. But I can’t stay here if he’s here. He will want to lock me up again.”

“Lock you up?”, John asked, clearly confused, “Why would he do that?”

“Because I’m an omega, John,” Sherlock said, “I’m not safe in public.”

“I doubt that he would do that, but if he tries to, I certainly won’t let him go through with it,” John declared.

Sherlock stared at him. “You would protect me from him?” But the doctor didn’t seem scared; maybe this world’s Mycroft wasn’t as bad as ‘his’ version. “And if you’re at it, would you stop him from hitting me, too?”, Sherlock asked. He had to make sure, after all.

“He hit you?”, John asked. “Is this why you stopped eating?”

“How do you know…?”, Sherlock started to ask, but John interrupted him: “I’m a doctor, I see those things. Besides, you don’t live with Sherlock for that long without learning at least a tiny bit about the works of deduction. Now let me examine you.”

Sherlock quickly retreated back on the bed. “No!”, he shouted.

John put the soup down on the bedside table and slowly approached him, hands turned towards the floor to show that he didn’t mean any harm.

“Was it that bad?”, John asked softly. “But don’t worry, I won’t hurt you, and nobody will ever hurt you again, I promise.”

Warily, Sherlock let the doctor come closer. “What do you want to do?,” he asked.

“Just take off your shirt,” John said, “We’ll start with that.”

Sherlock hesitated, but then took his shirt off. His chest and back displayed a variety of bruises and cuts. Mostly, Mycroft had used electro shocks for punishment, but sometimes his brother’s disobedience had lead to a beating. Never carried out by Mycroft himself, of course, but he had always watched in grim satisfaction. Sherlock suspected that his brother had enjoyed it more than he had let on, too.

“Oh you poor thing,” John almost crooned. He stretched out his hands and carefully touched Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock flinched. “This might hurt a bit, but I have to make sure, you have no broken bones, ok?”, the doctor said, his voice soft.

Sherlock let himself be examined, later also taking off his trousers. At first, he was afraid that John might lose control over himself and rape him, but the doctor didn’t show any signs of arousal, so Sherlock relaxed soon. Humans in this world probably couldn’t even smell omega scent.

John’s hands very careful but efficient, strong and soft at the same time. Sherlock caught himself even leaning into them a bit. For some reason, he started to trust this man. And this couldn’t be for the fact that he was a doctor, as Sherlock had had his fair share of cruel doctors. But this man had lost someone. Someone he had loved more than anything else in the world and now he took care of Sherlock, even though looking at him had to hurt John more than anything else.

There seemed to be no broken bones and the cuts were healing well, so John had him put his clothes back on and told him to eat his soup before it got cold. To his own surprise, Sherlock complied. Maybe living with the doctor wouldn’t be so bad after all.


	5. Brother Dear

To his surprise, Sherlock slept well that night. Well and long. After eating all of the soup John had brought him, he now felt almost human again. If he had ever felt human. Enjoying a long hot shower was the next step, and wrapping himself in the bathrobe he found hanging from a hook on the bathroom door. When Sherlock stepped into the living room, John only winced slightly seeing him in his former flatmate’s garment, then proceeded to make tea. Sherlock got comfortable on the sofa, reading one of his predecessor’s old note books, which John had given him in case he wanted to become a detective too, and sipped his tea. He almost felt at home. Or in a place which felt like home should feel like.

But of course he wasn’t allowed to be happy for long. The downstairs bell rang, which both of them ignored, as John said it was probably for Mrs Hudson, the land lady. However, soon there were heavy footsteps on the stairs, followed by a sharp knock on the door, which made Sherlock perk up. He knew those steps, recognized this way to knock. He almost wanted to stop John when he shouted “Come in” in his most cheerful manner.

Sherlock wasn’t surprised to see his brother entering… or at least someone who looked exactly like Mycroft. Even though Sherlock had figured out by now that the people in this world looked identical to the ones in his world did not mean they had the same characteristic features, the presence of this man made him shudder. Of course he couldn’t expect John to defend him if this Mycroft was in any way like his brother. Because as his brother, this man was tall, maybe a bit fuller around the middle, but not in any way less impressive for it, and would certainly not be defeated by this friendly, domestic little man his new flatmate was.

“Sherlock,” the man looking like Mycroft said, sounding both annoyed and exasperated, “what are you doing here? What is the meaning of this?”

“Mycroft,” John cut in before his new flatmate could say anything, “Let me explain.”

“Oh, I think my brother can explain very well for himself, Mister Watson,” Mycroft replied, now clearly more annoyed than anything. And Sherlock knew what this annoyance could lead to.

“This isn't your brother, Mycroft”, John said calmly.

“Of course this is my brother!” the older man exclaimed angrily, almost shouting now. He seemed so close to lashing out now. Sherlock had to do something.

“Why don’t you sit down, Mycroft?”, John tried to calm the man, “I’ll make you a cup of tea and explain everything to you from the beginning.”

“No!”, Sherlock suddenly shouted, getting up from the sofa. Both, Mycroft and John, looked at him in confusion.

Sherlock moved forward, standing between them, blocking his new flat mate from his almost-brother. “Don’t hurt him! It’s not his fault, he’s just at the wrong place at the wrong time. I can take a beating, but I’m not sure he can. Please…”, he trailed off. He didn’t like begging but he wouldn’t let an innocent alpha suffer for him. This had nothing to do with John.

“Beating?”, Mycroft asked, now utterly confused. “What are you talking about, Sherlock? Did you hit your head somewhere?”

John sighed. “That’s what I was about to tell you, Mycroft. He’s not Sherlock. At least not the Sherlock we know. He’s from another universe. I know it sounds crazy…”

“But of course!” Mycroft’s face suddenly lit up. “He’s not Sherlock, he’s from a parallel universe. That's why the CT cameras haven't captured him until now!”

Now it was John’s and Sherlock’s turn to look confused. “You know about parallel universes?”, John asked.

“Oh, but of course!”, Sherlock exclaimed, “Someone like the Doctor wouldn’t go undetected by you. You probably know all about him and about his Tardis.”

Mycroft nodded. “Exactly. And on closer observation you are nothing like my brother.”

John frowned at that. “He isn’t? I think they look very alike.”

“They might look alike, granted,” Mycroft allowed, “but the way he sat right now, upright like the health of his back might actually mean something to him. And the way he got up, trying to protect you, because he felt you to be an innocent who got in the way of adverse forces.”

Then he turned to Sherlock: “But let’s sit down. Tell me where you are from exactly and why the Doctor brought you here.”

“Yes, Sir”, Sherlock said and sat back down. The other two remained standing, however, staring at him.

“What is it?”, Sherlock explored, “Have I done something wrong?”

“Have you just called me ‘Sir’?”, Mycroft asked.

“Well, you are a ‘Sir’, aren’t you?”, Sherlock asked back.

John laughed. “Not like Sherlock indeed. I’ll make some tea while you start telling Mycroft your story.”

Mycroft sat down opposite Sherlock and after John had went into the kitchen, his new flatmate started telling his almost-brother about his life. Later, John joined them and together, Mycroft and he listened for a long time, completely captured and a bit horrified by the story of Sherlock's life.

“So, basically, Omegas are breeding machines and Alphas have all the power over them?”, John summed up when his new flat mate was finished.

Sherlock just nodded.

Mycroft didn’t say anything for a while, but his eyes stayed on Sherlock. However, the younger man didn’t feel any of the usual hostility in the other man, nothing of the ultimate hate he usually felt towards his older brother. This man was different, almost caring… In the wrong way, of course, he wasn’t a spoilt child who needed looking after, and Mycroft’s gaze had just a bit too much of a generous father, but caring nevertheless.

“You are safe here,” Mycroft said, “I couldn’t save my brother as I wish I could have, but I can make sure that your life will be as comfortable as possible here and that no harm will be done to you.”

They spent the rest of the evening making plans for Sherlock’s future, Mycroft making occasional phone calls to ensure that those plans could be turned into action. Sherlock would “rise from the dead” and slowly start taking up detective work (again), possible shortcomings being explained by torture he had received while unravelling Moriarty's network abroad. Moriarty, so Sherlock learnt, had been the head of a worldwide criminal network and the reason for the other Sherlock’s downfall and, ultimately, his death. However, Moriarty was dead now, too, and no need for concern and Mycroft had managed to hunt down most of his henchmen.

While Sherlock was thankful for the older man’s help, he slowly started to doubt Mycroft's motives. The government official might fool others as being just bad at showing emotions in general and a bit cold-hearted in specific, but Sherlock couldn’t see a bit of a man who lost his brother in him. Something which made him quite a bit uneasy. If this man wasn’t like his own brother, how was it Mycroft didn’t care at all that his brother had died?


	6. Taking Care of You

Losing Sherlock was the most horrible thing John had ever been through. Meeting “the other” Sherlock was… different. Different from anything John had ever experienced. Certainly too different to be prepared for. At first, John had thought it would be too painful to go through with it. Then, anger had taken over. Who did this guy think he was? Just because he looked like Sherlock didn’t mean he had the right to stay here! Finally, though, John had started to pity parallel-universe Sherlock; obviously this guy had been through a lot. John couldn’t just abandon him because of his own feelings. And of course it wasn’t the other Sherlock’s fault Sherlock was dead. In fact, it was nobody’s fault.

But John was done with the blame game, anyway. He blamed Moriarty, of course, but at times he had also blamed Sherlock, Mycroft… and himself. One drunken night, John had even blamed Mrs Hudson, because certainly she could have sensed Sherlock’s mood on that fateful day somehow and done… something. Or what if she had never rented the flat to Sherlock? Or John?

But enough of that! There was the other Sherlock to look after now. And even if John couldn’t bring himself to call him just “Sherlock” in his head, he would certainly not call him William. And he would not make him feel unwelcome or in any other way unwanted. This guy had earned a place in this world just as anybody else; he didn’t have to feel without a purpose and completely lost.

John could perfectly relate to the feeling of being lost. He himself had been so lost before he had met Sherlock. And even if the doctor was sure would have gotten back on his feet sooner or later, he was also sure that it would have been a far longer and more painful path had Sherlock not been there. The only reason he hadn’t felt lost in the same way after the detective was gone, was that John had never really accepted Sherlock’s death. Even though John had shed a million tears, he had somehow managed to convince himself that the detective would somehow, sometime, come back to him.

But this was over now. Another man would take Sherlock’s place, at least to the world. And all of the chaos of feelings this caused John had to stay hidden. He wasn’t allowed to show his anger, his paint, his endless desperation at the thought that “his” Sherlock would never come back and that to everybody else it was like he had. Because the “new” Sherlock was like a child, which needed protection. He had had a horrible past and everything which reminded him of that past made him suffer. He also seemed to be strangely perceptive of other people’s feelings, which meant that he suffered when other people did, but which also made it a lot harder for John to hide his feelings. And finally, the other Sherlock was a child in the same way as Sherlock had been one: He had to be reminded to eat, drink and sleep, and had to be kept from working too long and too hard. The most important thing was, though, not to fall for this other Sherlock. Because this would be just wrong. At the same time, John would feel like betraying “his” Sherlock, and being unfair towards the “new” one, because it wasn’t really him he wanted.

Or was it? The problem was that this Sherlock was so NICE. He was almost like a Sherlock without all the annoying habits. Except he wasn’t, of course. And John was sure that in the long term he would miss the annoying habits in Sherlock. However, the doctor’s heart didn’t listen to his logic. It was probably only human that he felt comfortable in Sherlock’s presence, no matter from which universe he came from. It was like an optical illusion: When he looked at Sherlock for a short time, he seemed to be “his” Sherlock; when he looked for a bit longer, he realized it was the other one. But there was more than that, actually. Sometimes John caught himself dreaming of being taken in the other man’s arms – or taking him in his arms – and just be content like this. With the comfort of physical contact and the promise of more.

But that he felt comfortable in parallel-universe Sherlock’s presence didn’t mean he had to fall for him, of course. John had enough control over himself not to do that, thank you very much. It might be a nice thought to have finally found someone, and getting laid every once in a while would be nice too, but no, he could manage without that. 

So John looked after Sherlock and for most of the time, the soon-to-be detective even let him. John had always been a caretaker, as most doctors probably were, but had never really gotten the chance of taking care of someone in his private life. This was partly due to his preference for slightly dominant women and partly due to the fact that he did not ONLY have a caretaker personality. A doctor, but also a soldier, so to speak. When he was honest, though, he had far too often let the women get the upper hand in a relationship. Too much of a gentleman, maybe. And then Sherlock had come along and everything had changed. The detective had not made John’s dating life any easier, certainly, but then he had gone completely without dating for a while, after he had come back from the war, so everything was an improvement. And theoretically, Sherlock had been someone one had to look after, and if only for basic things like eating and sleeping. However, John had never really gotten to do this either… at least not as much as he had wanted to.

But now he had a new Sherlock, a new chance to play caretaker. John had always wanted children. Maybe not straight away and there hadn’t been a special woman he had wanted children with, but somehow, someday… Now he had one. A man-sized child with an above-average intellect and a more-than-human perception of feelings, but an innocence every toddler would be proud of. Not that John knew how innocent Sherlock really was. For all he knew, he could be a rampaging sex addict, just waiting for his chance to take half of London to bed. John doubted that, but he couldn’t stop thinking that all that made the two Sherlocks different was their upbringing and the circumstances in which they grew up. Given time, the other Sherlock might actually BECOME his Sherlock. If this would be a good or a bad thing, John honestly couldn’t say.


	7. Cases

Working on cases wasn’t as hard as Sherlock had thought. And yet it was. It wasn’t the talking to people, even though he had to get used to this, too. But the hardest part for Sherlock was to see how endless the stream of crimes was in this world (and probably in every world). There was no end to people’s cruelty and there was no effort too much for them to get away with it.

Of course, when Sherlock was on their scent, they didn’t get away with it. He soon realized why his predecessor had been so keen on catching criminals. It was exciting and it certainly kept you occupied. And it was easy to get into the criminal’s mind as soon as you got the hang of it. John was a big help, at the beginning, as he could tell him a lot about the other Sherlock’s work. Or course, the former doctor didn’t know what had been going on in his friend’s head, but he could tell Sherlock about the other Sherlock’s mind palace, for example. 

Sherlock was at once allured by the thought of a mind palace. The moment John had finished telling him about it, he started building his own. At first, it was pretty empty with a lot of shut (and some even locked) doors, but the more he learnt about this world and the people living in it, the fuller his palace became and he soon had to add new rooms, and later even new floors. He was also reading a lot, filling the rooms with information.

This is how he learnt about the “Lost Ruby Case”, how John later called it in his blog. A woman had gotten a new necklace from her husband with a big red ruby on it. Then, one day, the husband was on a business trip and the woman, Mrs Nelson, went to bed early. The next morning, the ruby was gone from the necklace, which she had locked into her jewellery case. As Mrs Nelson was very careful and a bit paranoid, she also locked her bedroom door every night before she went to bed. A locked room crime, if there ever was one. Of course, nobody had paid special attention to this case; it had just gotten a short mention in a newspaper article about Mrs Nelson’s husband, who happened to be acquainted to some local politician. Which again showed what ignorant fools people were, who didn’t pay attention to the important things.

Sherlock, on the other hand, at once grabbed his coat and shouted for John, when he had read about the case. Mrs Nelson was very grateful when she heard someone was looking into the case again and flooded them with useless information, hard cookies and lukewarm tea. Sherlock left John to her meaningless blubbering and went right into the room in which the crime had taken place. When he examined the jewellery case, he soon discovered that it hadn’t been broken open. The same was true for the bedroom door. As Mrs Nelson had told him nobody had the keys but her husband and her and she didn’t even have a housekeeper but did all of her cleaning and tidying up herself, the prime suspect was the husband, of course. Sherlock somehow doubted that a man would give his wife a necklace and then steal the ruby on it, even given the stupidity of people and their tendency to get into debt, but went to ask Mrs Nelson about her husband anyway.

The husband was soon ruled out, though, and because Mrs Nelson didn’t have any pets either, the solution was, of course, the obvious one: The ruby was still in the room. After a thorough search, Sherlock found it in a drawer with cotton napkins. Mrs Nelson was immensely grateful but couldn’t explain herself how the ruby had gotten there. John looked a bit confused too, so Sherlock felt obliged to explain the obvious: “The sleeping pills, John.”

But John just frowned at that. “What about them?”

Sherlock sighed. Who was the doctor here? “Look at the side effects, John,” he explained and quoted: “’May cause disorientation and confusion. May, in rare cases, cause sleepwalking.’ Mrs Nelson, you are officially a rare case.”

The woman certainly looked confused now. “Are you saying I sleepwalked and put the ruby in a drawer myself? But how did I get it out of the fitting?”

Sherlock held the necklace up for inspection. “While your husband spent a lot of money on the ruby, because he knew you’d expect something big and shiny for your birthday, he obviously had the ruby fitted to a cheap necklace and into a cheap fitting.”

The woman looked positively scandalized at that. “He did not!”

“Yep, he did,” Sherlock retorted. “This is not even gold and even a toddler could have gotten the ruby out of its fitting.”

At that, they said their goodbyes, which were met with slightly less warmth than their welcome had been. Sherlock could again only shake his head about people’s priorities. It wasn’t enough that the woman had her ruby back, she had to have a perfectly ‘clean’ solution as well. And God forbid someone said something bad about her husband, even if it was that obvious!

“That was hardly diplomatic,” John remarked. “Since when am I a diplomat?” Sherlock asked, slightly annoyed, “you’re coming to the morgue?”

“What do you want at the morgue?” John inquired.

“Molly said she had some interesting body parts for me,” the detective answered. 

However, the former doctor preferred to go home and have some (not lukewarm) tea instead. People’s priorities! Well, at least John’s were slightly less ridiculous than other people’s…

Off to Bart’s, then! Molly was a mousy little woman, who, to Sherlock’s confusion, seemed to be awfully into him… or into the other Sherlock, as the case may be. She was one of the few people who knew that Sherlock wasn’t Sherlock. John had reasoned that she would find out sooner or later anyway, as she would be seeing so much of Sherlock, but Sherlock suspected that the former doctor just couldn’t lie to her. It was very easy to trust Molly, Sherlock gave her that, and lying to her would feel kind of wrong, he assumed.

What really confused him about her, though, was that her nature was very omega-like and yet she was into him. Sherlock had realized that, while there was no such thing as alphas and omegas in this world, it was very easy to classify its people by just the same characteristics as it was the case in “his” world. Therefore, he concluded, maybe the words “alpha” and “omega” didn’t exist in this world and the people had different physical traits, but they could still be divided into alpha-like and omega-like.

And Molly was clearly an omega-like. Maybe there was just something wrong with her? Or with him? Sherlock doubted that the people of this world were any different in their preferences from the ones of his world… which brought him to the question how close John and “his” Sherlock had really been, being clearly one alpha and one omega. But this was not something Sherlock really wanted to think about.

When he stepped into the morgue, Molly almost dropped her chart. She was always so nervous around him, which also struck him as odd. It didn’t seem to be just lovestruck-nervousness but something else… as if she felt guilty about something, but couldn’t tell him what it was.

“What do you have for me today, Molly?” he asked, trying to sound as nice as possible as not to make her more nervous than she already was.

“A liver,” Molly piped up, “It has some strange disease. I have seen it before, but I can’t quite place it.”

So Sherlock spent the rest of the day at the morgue, helping to identify the disease as polycystic liver disease.


	8. The Bloody Guardsman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Messed a bit with the timeline, sorry about that. Also, whoever gets the Game of Thrones reference, wins a cookie! Alsoalso I'm suddenly really tired, so if you find any typos... you can keep them. XD (or tell me about them if you want)

Strangely enough, John wasn’t as impressed by Sherlock’s work as he used to be. Maybe it was also down to the fact that it wasn’t the “real” Sherlock, but the former doctor had probably just gotten used to detective work. And he had waited for so long, had suffered so much, that he didn’t care one way or the other. It didn’t matter if cases were exciting or not, he just enjoyed spending time with the detective and was glad that he didn’t have to be alone anymore.

There was one case which stuck out, though. One of the guards of Buckingham Palace had felt threatened by an unknown stalker who was taking photos of him every day and for some reason Sherlock had taken an interest in this case. John didn’t find it especially interesting at first, but of course he let himself be dragged along. When they had entered the building where the guardsmen were stationed, the man was already dead. Or at least it had seemed that way at first. The guard was lying in the shower, motionless, and there was blood all over the floor.

Sherlock realized at once that the man was still alive, though. The other guards and their superiors didn’t want John to examine the guard at first, but some shouting helped with that. John Watson hardly ever got loud, but when a man’s life was at stake he felt it necessary to use his “military voice”. The voice seemed to have an affect on Sherlock, too, though.

At the time, the former doctor was very focused on keeping the guard alive, but this didn’t mean he didn’t realize the adoring way Sherlock looked at him. The detective’s mood soon changed, however, when he couldn’t figure out how the guard had been attacked. He had been alone in a locked shower with no weapon in sight. There was no way anyone could have gotten into the shower or that the wound was somehow self-inflicted before the guard had stepped into the shower.

Sherlock mulled the case over all the way back to Baker Street and spent half the night thinking, but couldn’t come up with a solution. Time and again, John told him that it didn’t matter, that the other Sherlock hadn’t solved every single case either, but the detective didn’t want to hear any of that. He just got angrier and angrier.

“Why does it matter so much to you?” John asked him carefully.

“Because you did so much and it’s like I did nothing! I have a brain but to what use did I put it? To no use, I could as well be a mindless soldier or something, I could help more people!”

John frowned a bit about the mindless soldier part, but let it pass. “You mean because I’m a doctor and I helped to stop the bleeding? But I didn’t even realize the guy was alive, at first! I only realized when you told me.”

“So?” Sherlock asked, “Just because you are daft doesn’t mean that I can stop solving cases!”

John sighed. Oh how similar the two Sherlocks were, after all. “It doesn’t mean you will stop solving cases. You have only not solved this ONE, you will do better next time. And maybe the solution will still come to you, you know. It sometimes just takes some time.”

“Oh what do you know?” Sherlock exploded, “You know nothing, John. This case will keep bugging me until I have solved it. Until then, it will keep me from sleeping, from eating, from basically everything. There’s no use in trying to comfort me, especially because it’s not your job.”

“What do you mean, not my job?” John asked.

“You could be such a GOOD alpha, but most of the time you aren’t even trying,” the detective explained, “This shouting yesterday… it made me see your real nature. But now you’re acting like good old mother hen again, it’s hateful.”

The former doctor took a deep breath. He didn’t know how long he could keep it together if Sherlock kept insulting him that way, but he certainly had to try. “You want me to shout then? Will you go get some sleep if I shout at you?”

Sherlock laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, you wouldn’t do that. You are too nice. I could knock you down and walk all over your face and you wouldn’t raise your voice at me.”

“Ok, here’s a thought,” John said, clenching his teeth, “why don’t you try and get some sleep anyway, and I’m trying not to forget myself.”

Sherlock laughed. “Forget yourself, as if you were even trying to be who you really are.”

The former doctor felt himself slipping, even though he was still doing his best not to lose his nerve. “How do you even know who I really am? Hm? How? You spent what… three weeks here now and you already seem to know everything. But you don’t. Believe me, you don’t. Even Sherlock – my Sherlock – didn’t know everything. He was a genius, granted, but he was human as well. But he KNEW me. You don’t know me. And you certainly can’t tell me who I am or who I’m not.”

There was a gleam in the detective’s eyes which John didn’t quite understand, but his next words hit the former doctor like a slap: “Is that why you are pretending to be someone else? Do you think if you pretend long enough that you no longer have feelings, your feelings for Sherlock will disappear and it will no longer matter that he’s dead?”

“How dare you!” John suddenly shouted, “How bloody dare you! I have taking you in here, I tried to look after you, for fuck’s sake!”

Sherlock flinched, but John didn’t even care. He stepped towards the other man, grabbing his shoulders. He never got violent, but he wanted to hurt Sherlock. Any Sherlock would be fine just now, even though this Sherlock had certainly earned it. 

The detective’s eyes were wide with shock now, but the former doctor still didn’t care enough to stop. “You be very careful of what you say, you hear me?” he hissed. “Cause one word from me and you’ll be sent right back from where you came from. Out of this house, out of this world, and if necessary, I’ll personally make sure that you stay out.”

Suddenly, Sherlock jerked himself free and turned around. John realized too late what was happening, to stop him. The detective walked out of the door and ran down the stairs before the former doctor even had time to think.

When Sherlock was gone, John blinked a few times to clear his head. The rage was suddenly gone and soon the confusion vanished as well and he realized what he had just done. He had shouted at and threatened a former abuse victim who, as a result, had run away from him. He had been an Anderson if there ever was one.


	9. Lost and Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kinda walked away with me... I hope the story will just end up making sense! XD (also, double points for finding out where I stole that character from ;) )

Sherlock didn’t even see where he was going. It didn’t matter anyway. He just wanted to go away, far away. The look in John’s eyes! How could Sherlock have ever been that stupid? How could he ever have thought that John was different? He was an alpha and that was that. No place here for Sherlock. No place anywhere.

He walked until his feet hurt and he was frozen to a ball of pain. Of course he had left his coat at the flat. But it was probably better that way. Sherlock hadn’t forgotten how the former doctor had looked at him the first time he had put the coat on, after Mycroft had given it to him. It had to be the coat of John's former flat mate, which caused John pain. Pain which lead to John lashing out, to showing his true colours. The detective had asked for it, but this didn’t make it any better. Well, at least he knew now.

Sherlock looked around himself for the first time since he had started walking. There was a pub at the corner. He decided to go in there, despite that fact that he didn’t have any money on himself, but at least it would be warm. The moment he stepped through the door, he regretted his choice. There seemed to be some sort of party going on at the pub and it was full of young men who were either drunk or getting there.

It really was warm, though, so Sherlock sat at a table in the corner and watched the men wearily. After some time, he was joined by a middle-aged man with a hawk-like nose and sparse dark hair. “Want anything to drink?” the man asked. 

“No, thanks,” Sherlock answered, staring at the table in front of him. If he just ignored the guy and seemed as boring as possible, he would probably go away.

“Come on, you can’t just sit there, all dry. Or are you hungry? Want me to buy you something to eat?”

Sherlock looked up, staring right into a pair of watery blue eyes, this time. “Why would you do that?”

“Oh just worried, deary,” the guy answered, “you look a bit lost.”

Sherlock didn’t like the guy’s demeanour and he certainly didn’t like to be called “deary”, but he WAS lost and just at this moment his stomach started to grumble.

“Whatever,” he said, “get me some chips, then.”

“Sure,” the man smiled, but he didn’t look any friendlier for that, “anything to drink with that?”

The detective thought about tea for a moment, but this would just remind him of John. “Beer, just any kind of beer,” he answered. He didn’t drink regularly and he couldn’t remember the last time he had had a beer. When he drank, he usually got drunk, though. He used to get drunk until he couldn’t walk straight and then laugh his ass off about his brother getting angry at him. Sometimes Mycroft had hit him, then, but it hadn’t hurt that much when Sherlock was drunk. Besides, his brother had actually done it himself on those occasions and this was almost a privilege…

It didn’t take long for the man to come back, carrying chips for Sherlock and beer for them both. The detective wolfed the chips down as if he was starving, which he probably was as he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten and he had been up for the whole night.

The other man grinned at him. “Good, aren’t they?”

Sherlock just nodded, then went back to his chips.

“I’m Theodore, by the way,” the man said.

“Sherlock,” the detective mumbled with a full mouth, and took a large gulp of beer.

“What’s your story, then?” Theodore asked, “Hard breakup?”

Sherlock frowned. “Why do you think that?”

“Well,” Theodore explained, “It’s rather too cold to walk around without a jacket, but you don’t look like you can’t afford one. Besides, you seem rather shaken, but you are not hurt and there are no other signs that you’ve been in an accident, so I’m guessing love, the second most common accident after car accidents.”

A smart ass, then. Well, two could play that game. “I was the driver,” Sherlock said, without batting an eye-lid, “killed two children, then made a run for it.”

“Nice try, sweetie,” Theodore laughed and took a sip from his beer, “but you just aren’t the type for such a thing.”

“How would you know?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” the other man said, “it’s your smell, I guess. You don’t smell like the one hitting someone, you smell like the one being hit.”

Sherlock should get angry at being victimized like that, he really should. But all he felt was amazement. Did this guy even realize how dead-on his assessment was? Or was it just luck?

“What about you, then?” Sherlock asked, “Do you always hang out at pubs in the middle of the day, waiting for someone to buy meals for?”

Theodore laughed. “I just came in here because I was bored, actually. Job’s been a bit of a drag, these days.”

“What do you do?” Sherlock inquired.

“Car salesman,” Theodore answered, “salesman of the year, actually. Too easy to sell those fools big shiny cars they don’t really need. With aaaaaaall the extras, of course.”

Sherlock smiled. He knew exactly what the guy meant. The noise in the pub suddenly increased, as something seemed to be hilarious and the men at the bar were roaring with laughter.

“Just look at those idiots,” Theodore said. “See this guy over there in the green shirt?,” he pointed at one visibly drunk blond man at the very left corner of the bar, “He’s going to marry tomorrow and from what I’ve heard his little wivey won’t let him party anymore, so he thinks he has to do all the partying right now. Thinks getting drunk as a sailor will make him happy. Will probably end up throwing his guts up tonight, might not even make it until then. And for what? Being stupid and utterly embarrassing with his friends for a few hours! It’s disgusting, just disgusting.”

Sherlock nodded. “I solve crimes,” he said thoughtfully, “wonder what good that does.”

Theodore looked at him with interest. “You work for the police then?”

The detective laughed. “I’m a consulting detective, the only one in the world. I solve crimes nobody else can solve. This one woman I met the other day now has a ruby back which had seemed irretrievably lost. She didn’t even thank me for it. And now I can’t even do that anymore.”

He didn’t know why he had told that to a man he barely knew, but it probably didn’t matter anyway.

The other man seemed to understand, though. “So you are sick of helping people who haven’t earned it. Ever thought of working for the other side?”


	10. The Other Side

Sherlock just stared at Theodore. “What do you mean by ‘the other side’?” he inquired.

The other man laughed. “Oh, come on, you can’t be that naive. You know, this whole sex-and-crime ado. Making people pay for their stupidity.”

Sherlock frowned. “Have you ever done that?”

Theodore lowered his voice and answered: “Well I might have, you know… helped people getting rid of money they don’t need anyway. Just a little pinch here and there.”

The detective lowered his voice too. “Ever gotten caught?”

“Never,” Theodore laughed, “Besides, it’s fun, you get all the broads too.”

Sherlock snorted. “Not interested in that.”

“Oh, you aren’t?” the other man asked, “More interested in the other gender, then?”

“No, that neither,” the detective replied.

Theodore lowered his voice even further. “You don’t have to tell me, of course, pretty, but is it little boys you are interested in or little girls?”

Now Sherlock knew why he had felt so uneasy when this guy had first approached him. There was this air around that guy, something not quite right about him. People said you could smell sex, and the detective knew from experience that you could (nothing smelled worse than an alpha right after coupling), but this man smelled different. Like musk mixed with sour milk. Like he could make something good go bad just by touching it.

The detective got up quickly, making the chair clatter and screech.

Theodore got up too. “Where are you going? Sorry, if I offended you. I didn’t mean it, I swear. Just let’s sit down again, shall we? We can talk about something else, if you want. You watch the football? Come on, it’s such a nice day.”

“I’ve got to go,” Sherlock mumbled, turning around and starting to make his way towards the door. He suddenly felt sick. Raping omegas was one thing, but children! Small, innocent children… This man didn’t even belong in prison, he belonged in hell!

“Wait!” Theodore shouted, but the detective ignored him. The air was suddenly stuffy. It felt like he was walking through water and was suffocating, too many people breathing his air.

Suddenly, Theodore was standing in front of him. “Come on, you have to be interested in SOMETHING. Whatever it is, I can get it for you. Want a stripper? I can get you one; male, female, doesn’t matter. Want to get drunk out of your mind, you’re my guest. Drugs too, whatever you want,” the man pleaded.

“Why do you want me to stay so badly?” Sherlock asked, against his better judgement, knowing that getting away from this man should be his first priority, but he couldn’t help but wonder.

“Don’t you see?” Theodore asked, “We could be the perfect partners in crime, you and me. Like Bonnie and Clyde. The Great Sherlock Holmes and Theodore T-Bag Bagwell, how does that sound to you? Too pompous? How about Sherly and Teddy then?”

Sherlock laughed drily. “So you want fame? And all the money in the world, a few naked children on the way?”

The other man smirked: “You get me, pretty. That’s EXACTLY what I want. Come on, don’t tell me you don’t want it too, at least a little bit.”

“I would rather kill myself than even raise my little finger to help you,” the detective answered.

Theodore suddenly got angry. “Oh, mister clean slate detective, you’ve never done anything wrong then, have you? Always been nice to mommy, never jerked off under the blanket?”

Sherlock huffed. “You’re pathetic. Your silly attempt to lure me into being ‘a bad guy’ won’t work. That said, I wouldn’t regret it one bit to squish you under my foot like the dirty little bug you are.”

“Oh, you would?” Theodore asked, “Not if I squish you first, honey, not if I squish you first. My guys are out there waiting for you. Now, I’ve tried it the nice way, but if you won’t listen, I will just take you home with me that way.”

“The place is full of people,” Sherlock remarked.

“Drunk people,” the other man clarified, “and if you’re thinking of the barman, he’s working for me and will make sure everything runs smoothly.”

The detective suddenly realized that he had walked right into a trap. It might be in the middle of the day, but if Theodore’s men were good at their job they might just pull this off. Kidnap him, or worse… Still, the guy’s plan was a bit too risky for a rat like him. 

Sherlock blinked. Did he imagine it or did the world just shift? He blinked again. Yep, definitely shifting now. The detective felt horribly dizzy all of a sudden and he didn’t know for how long he would be able to stay on this feet. “…the barman, he’s working for me and will make sure everything runs smoothly,” it echoed in his head. They drugged him! And in a place full of drunks he would seem just like another guy who’d had too much…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #sorrynotsorry about the cliffhanger, but I've already written the next chapter, so not to worry!
> 
> Also, for those of you who don't know Theodore Bagwell, I stole him from "Prison Break". Here are a few pics: 
> 
> http://www.wearysloth.com/Gallery/ActorsK/tve9505-20050905-1579.gif
> 
> http://www.writeups.org/img/fiche/3868a.jpg
> 
> (He's actually quite cute when he's not beeing creepy (which is like 98% of the time but oh well XD))


	11. Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mention of rape, but don't worry, I won't go into detail! (If you're still worried, see end notes.)

John was worried out of his mind. Not only had he scared Sherlock off, maybe for good, but he had made him run off into a world the detective still knew so little about. And John had no clue where the detective might have gone. He had been too busy being angry with himself to run after Sherlock. He might run into the wrong kind of people, and if he was anything like this world’s Sherlock, he might do something stupid… which would either include offending the wrong people or drugs, in all likelihood.

Anxiously, John called Mycroft, who at once agreed to send his men after Sherlock and to come over himself asap. 

Asap wasn’t soon enough for John, as it turned out, as he was pacing the floor and punching the wall by the time Sherlock’s brother got to Baker Street. 

“We should find him soon,” Mycroft calmed him, “Do you have a drink, though? Think I could use one… you too, by the look of it.”

“Soon?” John exploded, “How are you going to find him? He can be anywhere in London! And even if you have set up security cameras on every corner, Sherlock knows how to avoid them… at least the other Sherlock could.”

“Exactly my point, John,” Mycroft answered calmly, “He might seem like my brother, but he isn’t my brother. The phone I gave him has a new kind of GPS on it which doesn’t even have to have the mobile turned on to be activated.”

John’s eyes went wide. “And he didn’t realize that?”

“He probably was too busy trying to get used to the new situation,” Mycroft shrugged, “Now what about that drink?”

Slightly calmer now, the former doctor went into the kitchen to see what they had. Maybe Sherlock was ok after all. Something struck him as odd, though. He had never seen Mycroft act that cool when his brother had caused any kind of trouble. Surely, this Sherlock wasn’t Mycroft’s real brother, but still it seemed kind of strange.

After some digging, John came up with a bottle of Scotch. “Whisky alright for you?” he shouted over to the living room.

“If it’s Jack Daniels, you can brush your teeth with it, otherwise it’ll do, I guess,” Mycroft answered. 

John frowned. Had Mycroft just made a joke? Before he could wonder anymore about this, though, there were steps on the stairs and John hurried back into the living room, bottle still in hand.

Two of Mycroft’s men stormed in, looking harassed, which worried John more than a bit. Those men weren’t supposed to look worried, they were trained out of it!

“We know where he is,” one of the men declared.”

“Why didn’t you bring him, then?” Mycroft asked, clearly annoyed.

The other one of Mycroft’s men spoke up: “We’re having some kind of... kidnapping situation, boss.”

“Elaborate!” Mycroft snapped.

“They have taken his phone,” the man explained, “but we have put a bit of pressure on the man who had it and he told us that his boss has gotten hold of your brother, Sir.”

“How?” Mycroft asked.

“Drugs, Sir,” the man said, “they have drugged him, then taken him to a hotel room. We haven’t talked to the kidnapper directly, but the guy doesn’t seem to be stupid, Sir. As soon as he had realized one of his men was missing, he barricaded himself and Sherlock into the hotel room and had the message sent out that he won’t leave the room if he isn’t presented with some money.”

Mycroft sighed. “How much?”

“Three million”, the man answered, “and safe passage to Panama.”

Mycroft laughed. “Panama? And he thinks he will get away with that?”

The first man cleared his throat. “He threatened to rape your brother, Sir. He’s a convicted rapist, in fact.”

“Get my brother out of there,” Mycroft said, “give the guy some money, promise him more later. And organise a plane to get him to Panama. We’ll catch him again there.”

“No,” John cut in, “None of that. I won’t give him that chance. I’ll go over there and take care of this guy myself, if I have to.”

***

When Sherlock woke up, his head was pounding. He was lying on something soft, a bed, probably. His inner voice told him not open his eyes just yet, and when he did so anyway, the light hurt so much, he shut them again straight away. 

One glimpse of the room had been enough to tell him he was in a hotel room, and when his memory came back, Sherlock realized it must be Theodore’s room. No person in sight, but this didn’t have to mean anything; he didn’t exactly have a long time to look around. Slowly, the detective opened his eyes again. It still hurt, but the pain became bearable now. The drugs were probably wearing off. The clock on the nightstand showed half past two, so he had been out for less than half an hour. Given the fact that they had to carry him, he couldn’t be too far from the pub.

When he came to his senses a bit more, Sherlock realized the smell. He had never smelled something like that. It smelled like pain and despair and… blood? What had happened in here… on this bed? 

Sherlock suddenly sat up, but regretted it at once. The room started swimming in front of his eyes and it felt like someone had just stabbed him in the back of his head. However, the detective blinked wildly and forced himself to endure the pain, and after some endless seconds his vision became clear again and the pain ebbed off. Get up, he had to get up, get out of this bed. Carefully, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and put his feet on the floor. Even more slowly, he started to get up. But he didn’t get that far.

The connection door to the next hotel room swung open and Theodore stepped through. “Oh, you’re up,” he said, smiling, “you were out quite some time, sleeping beauty, I was starting to get worried.”

Sherlock was grinding his teeth. If this guy got any nearer…

Theodore approached the bed the detective was sitting on and put his hand on the other man’s head.

Sherlock jerked away.

“Now, now,“ Theodore scolded, “don’t be like that. I just want to be nice to you.”

Pain, tears, fear, screams, panic, blood, last breaths… Sherlock could smell it all. And now he was concentrating on it, he smelled it on Theodore himself too. Blood on the guy’s hands. Blood and worse.

Theodore put his hand into Sherlock’s hair again, stroking softly. This time, Sherlock didn’t jerk away. He wanted to smell it now. Smell it all. He would need it later.

“See, it’s not too bad now, is it?” Theodore asked, “Just let me touch you for a bit. Be nice to you. It will feel good, oh so good.”

Tears, screams, fear, pain, fear, pain, pain, pain, pain…

Sherlock snapped. He could feel it; it was like a switch had been turned inside of him. He suddenly raised his hand and grabbed the one which was stroking him. Then he got up. 

Theodore didn’t have time to react. Sherlock put his free hand on the man’s shoulder and pushed him against the nearest wall. Then he slammed his knee into the man’s crotch as hard as he could, again and again. 

Theodore was howling with pain and struggled to get away from him. Sherlock let him, but kept hold of his hand.

Theodore struggled some more, but Sherlock just pulled sharply on the man’s arm once and his whole arm went limp.

Theodore was on the floor now, rolled up like a foetus and clutching his dislocated arm. Not enough. Still not enough. Sherlock could still smell it: Pain, pain, pain, pain!

He prepared himself to kick the man’s head in, but suddenly the door burst open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, I would never let Sherlock get raped! (or any main for that matter)
> 
> But ok, this time I AM a bit sorry... but next chapter soon, I promise!


	12. Inquiries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is kinda short and not really happy with the title... Comments welcome! XD *leaves cookies*

“Sherlock, are you alright?” John asked. To his surprise, the detective was up and about, while another guy (probably the kidnapper) was lying on the floor and seemed to be in pain.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock huffed, “but you might want to have a look at Mr Bagwell, so he’ll be fit again when he’ll be sent off to prison.”

Still being a doctor at heart, John really examined the kidnapper straight away and popped his arm back into place. There was nothing much he could do for the man’s private parts, though, but then he really wasn’t sorry about that. A bit of disfunctionality down there might do the guy some good. At any rate, Mycroft would make sure that Theodore Bagwell would go to prison and never see the light of day again.

Back at Baker Street, he tried to find out what had happened exactly, but Sherlock just grunted in response. John sighed. At least the detective didn’t seem hurt, but he would really like to know what had made Sherlock resort to such violence. Bagwell had looked quite as if Sherlock had lost control there, and this wasn’t like the detective at all. John didn’t question his motives, though, and from what he had heard from Mycroft’s men, the guy had earned a beating, if anyone had ever earned one. There were a lot of things the former doctor could excuse; kidnapping, raping and killing children was clearly not one of them.

John was glad, however, that the detective seemed to have forgotten about the fight they had had. Which didn’t mean John wouldn’t own up to it. 

“I’m sorry about before,” he said, “there were a lot of things I shouldn’t have said. Of course, all of this is new to you…”

“Which isn’t an excuse,” Sherlock interrupted, “I was an arse too, so let’s just forget about it, ok?”

John’s eyes went wide. Did the detective just call himself an arse? He had to be really shaken then. “What did Bagwell do?” he burst out, even though he knew he probably shouldn’t press the matter if Sherlock didn’t want to talk about it.

“He raped children,” the detective answered.

“Yes, but that’s not what I mean,” John said, “but it’s ok…”

“No, it’s not ok,” Sherlock interrupted him, “innocent, little children, John! He should burn for this, he should… he should…”

Before the detective could calm down again, Mycroft came in. He had been downstairs with Mrs Hudson, telling her that “her boys” were alright now, but had promised to come up again before he left.

“You’re fine, I see,” he started, but that’s as far as he got.

Sherlock suddenly got up and started shouting: “You! You should have let me finish him off! What were you doing, letting John interrupt me?”

“I was making sure you wouldn’t go to prison, amongst other things” Mycroft explained calmly, “you wouldn’t like it there.”

“What do you know about prison?” Sherlock retorted, “You probably just came back here so you could stuff your face with Mrs Hudson’s cake. Not having cake for a day is probably the hardest thing you can imagine.”

“Really, Sherlock? Cake?” Mycroft asked, “Is this the best you can come up with?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the detective snapped, “So sorry I interrupted your shag by getting kidnapped. How unthoughtful of me.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. Apparently, Sherlock had been spot on once more. “I’m obviously not thinking that way about you, Sherlock. I care about you. When you are in trouble, I try to help,” Mycroft declared.

“But why?” Sherlock inquired, “because I look like your brother? Because John looks kind of good in jeans?”

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “I think I’ll better go if you want to be like that,” he said.

“No, I mean it, tell me why you want to look after me,” the detective insisted, “because you clearly don’t mind that your brother is gone.”

“I’m making some tea,” John declared and left the room.

“Good job, Sherlock,” Mycroft mock-congratulated him, “He had probably just forgot about him for a moment.”

Sherlock got closer to his not-quite brother, “But it’s not about him. It’s about you. Why don’t you care? Why don’t you miss your brother?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” was the haughty reply, and with this Mycroft left and the two flatmates to sort things out among themselves.


	13. Mystery Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *evil laugh*

Somehow, Sherlock and John managed not to kill each other during the next few days. They didn’t even hurt each other anymore, and slowly but surely they became real friends. For John, it was like living with Sherlock’s more sensitive brother. For Sherlock, living with the former doctor was better than anything he had ever experienced. It was… peaceful. And he became better and better at solving crimes.

Sherlock also got along well with Mrs Hudson, who more than once told him that he had changed when he was away. For the better, she meant. The detective sometimes got annoyed with her talking so much and clucking over him, but secretly enjoyed the attention.

However, Sherlock didn’t enjoy the attention he got from Molly. The fact that she was certainly a nice girl made him feel even more uncomfortable in her presence. Because Sherlock was an omega, of course he wasn’t interested in her, but she had earned someone who cared for her. Someone who was able to look after her; someone like Gregory Lestrade. Sherlock had managed several times to lure the DI into the morgue, but so far Lestrade had never stayed long.

If anyone had asked what he was doing, Sherlock would have said he had to get Molly off his back, so he could do his work in peace. What he told himself was that he wanted to make Molly happy. 

Neither of this was completely true, though. Lestrade’s presence sometimes gave the detective a tingly feeling in the pit of his stomach. And when the DI talked to Molly, there was an electricity between them that Sherlock could feel, no matter how far away he was standing. It wasn’t a strong electricity, and maybe nothing would ever come of it, but Sherlock could feel it. If he had been in his world, he would have said he could feel Lestrade giving off alpha hormones and that was what was getting to him. But in this world this couldn’t be the case. And nothing could get to Sherlock anyway, so this was nonsense; he was just doing this for Molly.

One day, after Lestrade had just left and Sherlock was pretending to look at something on his microscope, Molly came over to him. At first, the detective ignored her, but when she just kept standing there silently, he lifted his gaze. She looked at him in a very strange way, half worried and half curious.

“What?” he snapped.

“Your breathing is kind of strange,” Molly said.

Sherlock realized he was panting and forced himself to calm down. “There’s nothing wrong with my breathing,” he said.

But Molly didn’t stop looking at him. “You can tell me, you know, if you need something.”

“What would I need from you?” Sherlock asked.

“Well,” Molly began, fidgeting a bit, “I mean, it’s springtime and everything, so maybe you just… you know… are a bit affected by that…,” she trailed off.

The detective frowned. “Why would I be affected by the season?”

Molly cleared her throat. “You know, hormones…”

“Oh,” was all Sherlock said for a while. And then: “I’m not affected by that, no.”

Starting to wring her hands, Molly muttered: “Well, it’s just that you… seem to be.” She looked down on his pants, then quickly looked up again.

The detective could feel himself blushing. Something he never did, really, but Molly obviously had seen the bulge there. “It’s nothing,” he told her hurriedly.

“John didn’t tell me where you came from, exactly, or any of your personal history, and it’s none of my business, really, but I just wanted to know that I could help you,” Molly explained, her words almost tumbling over each other.

“How?” Sherlock asked, curious now. Molly wasn’t offering…?

“Well, I might not have that much experience in that matter, but, uh, I think it’s all about friction, right?” Molly asked. She had blushed furiously during the conversation and looked as if she would really like to run away right now. But she didn’t.

If Sherlock had had a moment to think, he would have realized what bad idea this was. What really, really bad idea. But when he heard the word ‘friction’, his mind suddenly went blank and all he could think of was the few times he had laid hand on himself in his world. He had usually used only his hand, but sometimes he had lain on his stomach and rubbed himself against the sheets. He had always gotten a beating when his brother had found out about the stains, but these times the beating had almost been worth it.

And here, he wouldn’t be beat up. In fact, there wouldn’t be any consequences at all, or so he told himself. Sherlock would let Molly do him, and Lestrade next. Lestrade… He shut his eyes for a moment, picturing the DI.

“Sherlock?” Molly asked hesitantly.

“Hmmm,” the detective answered, opening his eyes again. Before he could change his mind, he opened his fly and put his hard cock out.

Molly’s eyes went as wide as saucers. She swallowed once, then twice, and then asked: “What do you want me to do?”

Sherlock took her hand and put it on his cock, then closed his eyes again.

Hesitantly, Molly started stroking. The detective hummed. “Is this good?” Molly asked.

“Yes, but please don’t talk,” Sherlock told her. “Ok,” Molly answered in a tiny voice.

After some time, the slow tease wasn’t enough anymore. The detective grabbed Molly’s hand and showed her the rhythm he liked. “Like that,” he said, then let go of her hand again, grabbing the table behind him for support.

She was doing it perfectly now. Sherlock imagined Lestrade stroking him like that. Strong hands on his cock. Harsh breathing in his ear. Maybe the DI would even talk dirty to him: “Come on, mate, show me what you got… Yes, like that, your cock feels so good in my hand, you’re so big! Bet it would feel even better in my mouth. Or what about my cock in your mouth? So hard for you right now. Wish you would get on your knees and suck me off. I would fuck your face. Hard. Oh come on, baby, like this, yea, so close now.”

With a shout, Sherlock came into Molly’s hand. But when he opened his eyes, it wasn’t Molly holding his cock, but Theodore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry, new chapter already in the making! *pats readers* you've done so well until now, don't give up on me now! XD


	14. MM

Sherlock woke with a start. He felt dampness in his pyjama pants and sighed. His heat was about to start, then. But couldn’t it start ONCE without him having those awful nightmares? Molly, for God’s sakes!

Slowly, he got up and patted into the bathroom, throwing his pyjama into the hamper on his way. Forgetting that the water would need some time to get warm, he stepped right under the cold stream in the shower and hissed. Not his day today. If he didn’t know any better, he would say it was a Sunday. He hated Sundays. They were dead-boring.

But Monday it was, and of course John was already up and about, fresh as a daisy. “What took you so long, sleepyhead?” he greeted him, “I’ve made you some toast.”

The detective just grunted in response. If good mood in the morning was a crime, John would be serving a lifetime sentence by now. It was better that it wasn’t, though, because the toast was quite good.

“We’re having a new nurse at the surgery,” John chirped, “I hope she’ll be competent. Old one always misplaced the files. Quite embarrassing, if you are as bad with names as I am sometimes.”

Some more grumping from Sherlock, accompanied with some slurping of tea.

“Her name’s Mary Morstan, MM, isn’t that funny? I was wondering if I should make that joke I thought of…?” John went on, unfazed.

The detective looked up, feigning interest. “Which joke?”

“If the MM actually stands for ‘Mama Mia’… you know, ‘Mama Mia’ said like something Italian for hot woman… or do you think that’s a bit much?”

“Is she hot, then?” Sherlock inquired.

John thought for a while, then he explained: “Well, I’ve only seen her picture, so far, and she seems… quirky? You know, as if she would appreciate a joke and not take it too seriously?”

The detective sighed. When it came to judging people, John wasn’t exactly an expert.

“Ok, better not then,” John said, “or maybe save it for later, when I know her a bit better.”

Sherlock didn’t know if he liked his flatmate working again. For one thing, he had less time to work on cases with him, on the other he would be meeting more people now. Women, in particular. And it was only a matter of time, until the former army doctor would find “the one” and maybe leave him in the process. Sherlock didn’t like the thought of living alone in this world. But maybe it was just his heat making him feel insecure.

Sherlock finished his toast, then grabbed the newspaper. He wondered if he should tell John that his heat was starting, but decided to postpone this particular conversation. Not in the mood for awkwardness right now, and he could usually control himself until he was alone.

John went to work and came back with an even broader smile. He had made that stupid joke and that Morstan woman had actually liked it. This didn’t improve Sherlock’s mood, of course. He had been trying to concentrate on the newspaper, then moved over to the couch to brood. Sherlock always felt like a damn damsel in distress before his heat hit him full force. He wished it was already there. He also couldn’t stop thinking about this horrible dream he had. Molly wasn’t his piece of cake, but what if he actually was into Lestrade? The ID could come round with a new case any day now, and if Sherlock wanted to rut him, he should probably tell John not to let him in. Which would be cause for even more awkwardness. Great.

“What’s wrong, Sherlock, don’t you feel well?” John asked, “Have you eaten? Do you need anything? Tea maybe? Or should I check your temperature?”

“I’m fine,” the detective said, turning his back to his flatmate.

“I’ll just prepare dinner then?” John asked, but kept hovering.

Sherlock turned back around, suddenly angry: “Listen, I think it’s great you’ve finally found someone to shag, now would you please leave me alone?”

The former army doctor raised his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine, I’ll leave you alone,” he said and went into the kitchen.

Sherlock went back to his brooding.

**

A few days later, John came home from a date with Mary. As usual these days, he was in a splendid mood. Sherlock’s mood wasn’t too bad either, as he had just gotten himself off trice while John was gone and had even managed to take a shower to get rid of the smell before the doctor came back. Currently, the detective was lazily stretched out on the couch, eyes half closed.

“You’ve been lazy, then?” John asked.

Sherlock smirked. If he only knew! 

However, his smirk faded when his flatmate came nearer. There was a smell on him…

The detective sat up. “What’s that you’re smelling of?”

John frowned. “Garlic?” he answered hesitantly, “There was quite a lot in the food, I’m afraid. Fancy restaurant, otherwise. Mary picked it. Might go there more often.”

Sherlock ignored his rambling and concentrated on the smell. “No, it’s something else.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” the doctor said and yawned, “but it’s late, think I’m heading to bed.”

But the detective could see he was faking. John was hiding something from him. Sherlock got off the couch and stepped right in front of the doctor, then proceeded in smelling his neck.

“What are you doing?” John complained, taking a step back.

“Alpha,” Sherlock declared, “You smell of alpha. And as I haven’t smelled that on you before, it must be Mary. Mary is an alpha.”

“Nonsense,” John huffed, “There are no alphas in this world, Sherlock.”

“Why were you trying to hide the source of your smell, then?” the detective inquired.

“Because I don’t want to spread my love life out in front of you, that’s why!” John burst out, “It’s bad enough that you can deduce things, now you can also smell what exactly we did!”

With that, the doctor went to bed and left a confused and a bit worried Sherlock behind.


	15. Help for a Genius

During the next few weeks, John went out a lot with Mary. He felt like they had a real connection, like this woman somehow understood him better than all the rest, as much of a cliché as this was. Most of John’s former girlfriends had tried to get the upper hand in their relationship in some way or other. Had managed to as well, most of the time. John had always tried to be a gentleman and to be as nice as possible, especially when it came to sex. Which usually resulted in him not getting any.

Sherlock had been a factor too, of course, but if John was honest with himself, the detective had often only served as an excuse. If the doctor had really been interested in any of those women, he had made sure Sherlock didn't get in between. Hell, he would have moved out if necessary. Instead, he had left his phone on at all times, let himself be called away for cases when he was on a date and had even jumped out of bed right after sex at one point, to make sure Sherlock was alright after an especially dangerous case.

Marry was different, though. Marry made him want to stay, to shoo Sherlock away and to just spend endless quiet evenings with her. Being with her reminded John a bit of his time with the former Sherlock; only with Mary, there was sex. She was smart, too. He had never been able to have such intelligent conversations with any nurse before. Not saying that nurses were stupid… They were just usually interested in simpler things. Marry, on the other hand, read all the medical journals and was up-to-date on all of the research currently going on in this area. She could tell the doctor things not even he had ever heard about. 

One day, John asked her, why she hadn’t become a doctor instead of a nurse, but she only told him that he was more comfortable as a nurse and that she liked looking after people.

John could relate to that. He didn’t know where the notion came from, but suddenly he was telling her everything about Sherlock - Well, almost everything, he left out the fact that there was a “new” Sherlock now and how the “old” one had killed himself. 

Mary seemed to perfectly understand how John felt like he had to look after his best friend: How he sometimes got up early on a weekend, just to make sure the detective had eaten, how he abandoned his work sometimes to rush after Sherlock and how he had even stopped caring that he never even received a “thank you” for all of his efforts.

“Sounds like he has a bit of an autistic streak," Mary remarked. 

John was surprised. “I've thought about this too, actually."

“Has he ever seen a therapist about this?`” Mary asked.

The doctor made a face. “He doesn’t like them. Besides, I think he made some bad experiences with doctors in his past.”

“Too bad,” Mary remarked, “If he got help, he might become a nicer person, might even feel better about himself. I used to have a friend whose daughter had Aspergers’. They gave her some pills and she’s just like a normal girl now.”

Somehow this irked John. “Sherlock doesn’t need to become a ‘normal’ person,” he said.

“Oh no, of course not,” Mary quickly back-pedalled, "I didn't mean it like that! I was just saying, the girl had serious problems making friends and at school as well. Now she's doing fine: No more problems concentrating, bunch of friends…”

“Well, Sherlock doesn’t have any trouble concentrating and I won’t make him take any pills just so that he says ‘thank you’ to me every now and then,” John declared.

“No, no that would probably be overdoing it, maybe it was a bad example,” Mary gave in, “the girl probably was a more severe case.”

John nodded. “Probably. But you’re right, it would do Sherlock some good to have someone else to talk to. Maybe I could manage to talk him into seeing someone. Couldn’t be just the next best therapist, though. Maybe there’s someone who specialises in people with high intelligence. You know, someone who doesn’t talk to you like a baby and give you advice like a parent would do. Sherlock couldn’t stand that.”

“Oh, I could talk to a few people,” Mary volunteered, “and you could ask around too. Surely there's someone who knows someone suitable. Or someone who knows someone who knows someone. We're not in a hurry either, we can take our time and I'm sure we'll come up with someone in the end. Worst case, Sherlock doesn't talk to them anyway.”

John smiled at her. “Thanks, I would really appreciate that. And I’ll do my best. Actually, I can think of a few people I could ask.” He really liked the way she was thinking and how she was trying to help him with Sherlock where other girlfriends had only been annoyed about him.

John had never thought about it this way, either. That he could get help for Sherlock. That he didn’t have to be the only one the detective relied on and that he didn’t have to worry forever about Sherlock getting himself into some serious trouble. Or to OD. Or to kill himself in any other way, intentionally or not.

Sherlock being an omega would be a problem, of course. But Mycroft could probably work his influence, so whichever therapist they choose for Sherlock would keep his mouth shut, should the detective ever feel like talking about his omega nature and this other world he came from. Maybe this other Sherlock didn’t look down on therapists as much as the other one, who knew.

If Mary was really the one, John wouldn’t be able to be around Sherlock that much any more, anyway. From experience, the doctor knew that relationships needed work and if you didn’t have enough time to do this work, well… they failed. And he had put his life on hold for Sherlock for too long now. He could tell himself he was happy with the situation, with Sherlock being “back” and working with him, as well as at the surgery. But John wasn't happy. Not happy at all. He would always feel that there was something missing, and if it only was the sex. 

It wasn't, though. So far, John had never seriously thought about children, but with Mary he did. He had seen how good she was with them, too, whenever there were some at the surgery. And he wasn’t a young lad anymore. One day, he would wake up and feel he had gotten too old to change nappies and to stay up all night when the baby was sick. And then he would regret not having taken the opportunity. Which in turn would lead to resenting Sherlock. And John didn’t want to resent Sherlock. He would find help for the detective.


	16. Alpha World

Sherlock was having a massive pout. In fact, it was so big a pout he would have laughed at himself if he hadn’t been so busy pouting. He had every reason to be disgruntled, though. John had suggested he went to a psychiatrist. In which WORLD was Sherlock someone who went to psychiatrists? Certainly not in this one, cause he wouldn’t go. Ever. And he wouldn’t talk to John again. At least not until they were out of milk.

The detective wasn’t only angry, though. He was also worried. John seemed to slip further and further away from him. And not only in the average "I have a girlfriend now, I'm gonna spend less time with you" kind of way. It was more like Marry was sucking John in, including everything which made John John. His flatmate just didn’t seem to be himself anymore: He was less patient with Sherlock, less caring and sometimes almost cold towards him. The psychiatrist had been Mary’s idea, too, of course. But the doctor didn’t even seem to realize that. The way he had talked about it made it seem like Mary had made sure John would think it was his own idea.

That evil bitch. And she DID smell like an alpha, if John believed it or not. Sherlock was not sure what that meant, though. He was sure, however, that the Doctor wouldn’t bring someone like Mary into this world. So was there another way to get here? Or was there a “leak” somewhere? Would his brother be able to get through to him? But then this was neither here no there; his brother wasn't the problem right now. Mary was the problem. Mary had to go. He had to talk to Mycroft about this.

But before Sherlock got the chance to talk to his not-quite-brother (or even to finish his pout), a new case came up. Someone was trying to blackmail the government – Mycroft in particular – by threatening to publish classified government information. Something about this case seemed off, though. Something Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on.

However, when he was still trying to figure out what was wrong with the case, the suspect showed up at Baker Street. His name was Charles Augustus Magnussen and he was an alpha. It was obvious as soon as the man entered the room. It wasn't even the way he smelled. It was the way he didn't smell of anything. And his whole appearance: Cold, calculating and completely and utterly disgusting. No human managed this level of disgustingness. And when Sherlock saw the look on John's face when the guy started peeing into their fireplace, Sherlock wanted to bash his face in.

Which wasn’t what happened, of course. Because this was exactly what the guy wanted: that Sherlock would lose his cool and give him a reason to “defend” himself. Sherlock had seen omegas die for less than attacking an alpha. And he just wouldn't give Magnussen the satisfaction. Of course, John didn't understand how Sherlock could seem completely unmoved by this and stormed off to see Mary, as soon as their “client” was gone. Which in turn made Sherlock even angrier. He was about to re-start his pout when he realized something: One alpha… another alpha.

This couldn’t be coincidence. Alphas usually lived in packs, why shouldn’t it be the same way when they moved from one world to another? However they had managed this. What did this mean, though? At the very least, it meant that Mary knew Magnussen… maybe even liked him. If this was true, it proved that Mary wasn’t a nice person at all. But John wouldn’t believe this without further proof. Sherlock saw a chance of getting John back and this certainly lifted his mood.

The problem was that he had to solve the case before he did anything else, but maybe this would even help his cause. So he threw himself into the task of finding out where the files, which this guy claimed to have in his possession, were. After some digging, he found out about a guy who was working for Magnussen and who had suddenly come into a lot of money after their ways parted. Certainly suspicious. Sherlock decided to pay the man’s office a visit when he wasn’t there.

The detective had just found a way to do this when John returned. He seemed calmer now. Probably had gotten a leg over. Sherlock snorted at the thought. "You're coming?" he asked.

“Where?" John countered.

“Following a lead,” Sherlock replied and rushed off, guessing correctly that John would follow.

Getting the key card to the right floor was easy, it just took some light acting and some sneaking around. The harder part was actually getting into the office, as there was a private secretary who was watching over the security system. She would be able to see them over a camera as soon as they had used the card to call the elevator, and the elevator doors would only open if she pressed the right button. Sherlock had done his research, though.

“You’re not my boss," was the first thing the girl said over the intercom.

“Hi, no, we’re not,” Sherlock replied, “but you are Janine, right?”

“How do you know this?" the secretary asked, “And aren’t you this detective? I’m gonna call security now."

“No, no, please hear me out,” the detective pleaded, “I mean, hear me out first, please, after that you can call security, if you want.”

Janine hesitated. “You have a good reason for being in here then? A legal one, I mean.”

“Well, I don’t know if it’s legal… but it can’t be illegal to be in love, right?” Sherlock burst out.

“In love?" the girl asked and John frowned at him from the side.

“I've seen you, you know... down at the car park. Several times. But somehow I couldn't bring myself to talk to you. I'm kind of shy when it comes to women, you know...” Sherlock’s voice faded into a whisper. He cleared his throat and continued, seemingly having gathered his strength again. “Anyway, I decided to come here to ask you something.”

“Ask me something?” Janine enquired, but even from this short question Sherlock gathered that she was intrigued.

The detective took out a rose from the paper bag he had brought, looked directly into the camera and held the flower up. “You want to be my Valentine?” he asked.

They could hear the woman gasp. Sherlock silently congratulated himself for managing to hack into her Facebook account and finding out that she was a romantic, currently looking for her prince to “rescue” her from the boredom of everyday office life.

“Yes, yes of course,” the secretary answered hurriedly.

“You’re gonna let me in now?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, of course,” Janine said, and the elevator doors opened.

However, by the time they arrived at the office, the girl was lying on the floor of the reception area, unconscious. Someone had gotten there before them! Sherlock left John to look after the girl and hurried into the actual office, which was separated from the reception area by a door, a short hallway and another door.

On his way there, the detective smelled something, but abandoned it as unimportant. He should soon find out that it wasn’t, though. When he entered the room, a dark figure was leaning over the desk, which dominated the room, going through some documents in a drawer. The desk lamp, which was the only light source in the otherwise dark room, didn’t shine into the person's face, but Sherlock still knew at once that it was Mary. Even if he had never liked her and he certainly didn't expect anything good coming from her, this enraged him, as letting herself be caught helping Magnussen seemed like an especially bad insult to John.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock barked.

Mary looked up, but she didn’t seem scared. Her movements when she walked towards him seemed still calm, all calculated, even though she was quite a bit smaller than the detective and didn’t seem to have a weapon.

“I don’t know how this is any of your business… omega," she replied.

Sherlock winced. But of course she would know! That he could smell her only meant that she could smell him too! He silently cursed himself for not realizing this any sooner.

Mary came closer and with every step she seemed to grow. “You can’t be afraid of her, there’s nothing she can do to you,” Sherlock told himself.

“You will not get between me and John," Mary said, “You won't spoil this for me."

And then Sherlock was afraid. Because that was the alphas’ real power: No matter how they looked like or which gender they had, you feared them. Their physical strength didn’t mean anything compared to the fear. It paralyzed Sherlock and there was nothing he could do.

Then Mary closed her hands around his throat.


	17. Another Solution

Sherlock woke up to an angry John, at the hospital.

“You’re awake, good,” the former army doctor huffed, “because I’ll have to tell you something: You’re an idiot!”

“Why,” Sherlock croaked, then carefully sat up to get his hands on the glass of water standing on his bedside table.

John helped him, but didn’t let himself be distracted. "Because you KNEW she was an alpha and you still approached her all by yourself. You should have called for help!"

“Not enough time,” Sherlock claimed. He felt slightly dizzy from sitting up and his throat didn’t feel too good, but otherwise he was fine.

“Bullshit!” John barked, "And I was just in the other room, no way she could have escaped."

“Then I don't know what you're complaining about," the detective answered coolly, "If she had killed me, you could have lived happily ever after with your beloved."

John sighed. “If you want me to tell you that you were right, then here you go: You were right. But I certainly didn’t want you to get killed to make it possible for that maniac woman to live a lie with me… happily ever after or not.”

“So you’d prefer saving me to getting laid?” Sherlock inquired.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Honestly, yes. I can watch porn every day, can’t have anyone die for my sex life.”

Sherlock laughed, then coughed.

“You need rest,” John said, “Think you can sleep for a bit?"

“I’m not tired,” the detective declared, then yawned.

“Right,” the doctor laughed, “almost getting killed is exhausting business, try to get some rest. How do you feel by the way?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said, “throat a bit sore, but otherwise fine. What happened by the way?”

“Oh, right, sorry, you don’t know..." John suddenly seemed flustered. "You didn't come back for a while, not even for that long, but I felt something was off. So I followed you and found Mary with her hands round your neck. Might have lost it a bit then cause the next thing I remember is me on the floor, on top of Mary, beating the shit out of her.”

“Nice,” the detective remarked, "Did you kill her?"

“No, of course not!” John stared at him in shock, “She’s just a bit worse for wear, is all. Mycroft took care of it and she’s in prison now.”

“Good,” Sherlock said, “What about Magnussen?”

“Disappeared,” John explained, “and apparently the documents weren't the real ones, either. Mycroft thinks he might have sent Mary there for the sole purpose of killing you. Without her knowledge, of course.”

“Might be,” Sherlock nodded.

The doctor got up. "Ok, I'm leaving now. You really need to sleep. Call me if you need anything. I'll be right outside, making some phone calls."

***

Of course, Sherlock didn’t sleep, but brooded over the case instead. He was still brooding when Mycroft came to see him.

“How are you, not-brother dear?” the old Holmes chipped, obviously in a good mood.

“Brilliant,” the detective answered sarcastically, “Have you caught him yet?”

“Not yet,” Mycroft answered, “but we’re on his track. And the assassin you found was already a nice catch. We've been looking for her for ages. She kept changing her identity."

“You’ll never find him, then,” Sherlock said, "but I already have an idea where he might be…”

“No,” Mycroft said, suddenly serious, “you are off the case. Getting yourself almost killed once is more than enough."

“I’ll be more careful, then,” the detective declared, “I need to catch this guy, he made John angry and his minion broke John’s heart.”

Mycroft frowned, then said: “There might be another solution to this.”

“Which other solution?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, if you think you can find him, there might be another person who can," the older Holmes explained.

“Another person?” the detective asked.

“Not even another person, strictly speaking... more like: the same person," Mycroft replied.

“Ha! I knew it!” Sherlock shouted and almost jumped out of his bed, but Mycroft held him back, “he’s not dead, is he? The other Sherlock? He’s alive!”

“Shush,” Mycroft reprimanded him, “not so loud!” Then he whispered: “Yes, he’s alive. He was hunting down everybody who made up Moriarty’s network.”

“The man who's responsible for Sherlock's 'death'?" Sherlock asked, "John told me about him. But isn't Moriarty dead, too?"

“Yes,” Mycroft explained, “but there were still quite a few people out there who could have been a danger to John and Sherlock’s other friends, when my brother chooses to come back. What he wants to do soon, actually, he is just waiting for the right moment.”

“Ah, makes sense,” the detective remarked coolly, “we don’t want him to get anything less than maximum attention, do we? Never mind that John is suffering, getting his heart broken a few times more to find a replacement for Sherlock. Never mind that, John’s just a pawn to smart guys like you anyway. You’re the elite, he’s an old, broken former soldier, is that it? Not good enough to be part of the club but…"

“It’s not like that,” Mycroft interrupted, “Sherlock hated to do this, he really did. He didn’t want to see John suffering, but he had to, to keep him safe. And with you just having arrived, it just wouldn't have been the right time for him to come back. I actually stopped him from turning up on John's porch as soon as the last of Moriarty's henchmen was dead."

“Why did you let me stay here, then?” Sherlock asked, “Why not find me another 'home' or just chase me off? Obviously I'm getting in the way of their luck, and I simply can't be as important to you as your brother."

The older Holmes sighed. “It was a tough decision, actually. But at that time it seemed right. Sherlock wasn’t done with his job in Serbia yet and John seemed to need someone to look after. And it worked, didn’t it? He got his life back together."

“And fell right into the arms of a notorious assassin,” Sherlock huffed, “good job, really. Couldn't have done it better. The other Sherlock would probably never have allowed to let this happen. But me? I almost let her kill me, so I'm obviously the right one to help John 'get his life back together'."

Mycroft sighed again. “It’s not that easy,” he explained. “Grief has many stages. Certainly, this wasn’t the development I was hoping for, but before you arrived I was constantly worried John would do something to himself. Now that’s not the case anymore. In fact, he has taken the thing with Mary very well. Said he should have known something was off the moment you told him Mary was an alpha. Of course he’s hurt, but he’s also glad you’re alright. And when Sherlock is back, he’ll be even better, I’m sure. It might take a while, certainly, but he’ll get there. Because of you. You helped him through this. Before you were here, I wouldn’t have dared to send Sherlock back, as I was afraid John might get a heart attack or simply kill my brother… then maybe himself.”

“Very Romeo and Juliet,” Sherlock remarked, “but he might still get a heart attack.”

“Not if you are there,“ Mycroft said, “You make him much calmer. You know, when he was ranting a few minutes ago? This was almost harmless compared to what I've heard him shouting at Sherlock before. And it's not because he's depressed, either, it's because he cares for you and he's glad you're ok, and that's what's important to him right now."

“How are you going to bring your brother back, then?” the detective inquired, “Just make him pop up, in a middle of a case, and hope John is going to recover from his not-quite-heart-attack quick enough to still be of service to wrap it all up?”

“No, I was actually thinking of making this a gradual process, too,” Mycroft explained, “You two could swap places without John knowing and he could get used to ‘his’ Sherlock again, that way."

“This is never going to work,” Sherlock said, “your brother will never be able to fake feelings.”


	18. A Strange Encounter

Reluctant as he was to carry out such a stupid plan, Sherlock gave in, in the end. If nothing else, getting almost killed by Mary had shown him that he could never completely take the other Sherlock’s place. And before John got hurt even more, he could as well step back and let the “original” do his work. Not that he was planning to completely stay out of this case, though. It wouldn’t do any harm to keep a watchful eye over John.

First, he would have to meet the “real” Sherlock, though, so he could teach the man how to behave in front of John, so the doctor wouldn’t know what was up straight away.

When he first saw “John’s Sherlock”, he was shocked, though. Of course he hadn't expected this world’s Sherlock to be exactly the same as him, but he hadn’t expected him to be physically different. At first glance, the man looked like a peddler: Haggard, unshaved, unwashed hair hanging in his face, clothes looking like he slept in them, haunted look. But then, the man started talking.

“You’re William, then? You won’t mind if I call you that, certainly, as you already think of yourself like that. Second rate, so second name. You are not any worse than me, of course, but you're not from this world, so you feel like you don't belong here. Also, you feel guilty because you think you let John down. Which you haven't, by the way, so you can stop that. I never understood feelings, but in you they are especially irritating. Can't you pull yourself together?"

Sherlock – William – could only stare at the other Sherlock. William was alright for him, as they had to differentiate each other somehow, and as this was this world’s Sherlock, he couldn’t be Sherlock. But he hadn’t expected this man to be this cold… he should have, really. “How did you fake your death?” he blurted out, regretting it at once.

Sherlock’s face suddenly lit up. “Oh, it wasn’t that hard, really. All I needed was a corpse which looked a bit like me and Molly’s help…”

They talked for quite a while about this and William was really impressed. He couldn’t have done it any better. Even though there would have been a few details he would have changed, and he told Sherlock so. Sherlock didn’t agree, but valued William’s opinion. It was strange, but they actually seemed to get along. And it became obvious to William now, why Molly had always behaved so guiltily in front of him. She had had a vital part in Sherlock’s faked death which in turn had hurt John immensely. Now Molly saw the doctor all the time, but couldn't tell him his best friend was actually still alive. And William’s presence had reminded her of that. While it wasn’t logical for her to feel guilty towards him, it someone made sense…

Sherlock was also interested in the world William came from, even though not that interested. After some time, Sherlock started to be less and less concentrated and it became obvious that the detective was tired. Tired enough to let it show, so the last years must have really taken their toll. All the more important that they worked together on this case.

“So, when was the last time you had a shower?" William asked jokingly.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Quite some time ago, actually. I came here straight from Serbia. Going to need a shave too, a haircut and a new set of clothes. I hope Mycroft took good care of my Belstaff."

William cleared his throat. “Actually, it’s in my possession right now. But I’ll just leave it at Baker Street. Along with the rest of your clothes.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll appreciate that. Don’t run around naked, though, it’s actually frowned upon in this world.”

William laughed. “Not that you care.”

“No,” Sherlock said earnestly, “I don’t.”

William laughed again, then got serious. “Will this be a problem, though?”

“Me walking around naked?” Sherlock asked, frowning, “No, I can pull myself together.

“No, I mean… does your naked body look different from mine?” William asked, blushing slightly.

To his surprise, if not shock, Sherlock took off his shirt. They were in a hotel room, so this was really ok, but still it embarrassed William more than just a bit. Because what he saw was not his body, but like an improved version of it. Tanned skin, stomach abs…

“Are you drooling?” Sherlock inquired.

William realized that he was, but hurried to hide it, swallowing and wiping his chin. “I’m not.”

Sherlock sniggered. “And I though John was bad.”

“He drooled over you?” William asked. 

“Sometimes,” the detective answered, “at least there were long stares…”

“He didn’t drool over me,” William complained.

“Not just the body then,” Sherlock said, “interesting.”

“You are a pig,” William said, “of course it’s not just the body. John is in love with you."

Sherlock’s eyes became hard. “I know. But we are here to fix this, right? So tell me how it is to be you.”

***

John sighed. He had just managed to burn his food. Again. He hadn’t felt this miserable for a long time. But strangely enough, he didn’t feel THAT bad. Not that hopeless, at least. So his girlfriend had been an assassin. That was great. Perfect really. Just his luck. He should have known it wasn’t meant to be. John Hamish Watson being happy with someone? Just not gonna happen.

But at least Sherlock was alright. And life would go on, somehow. Right now he was just angry with himself for burning his food. At least that was what he told himself. And he was really just crying because the smoke was stinging his eyes. 

Before he knew it, he was lying on the couch, sobbing. It didn't last long, but it was violent. If Sherlock had been there, the real Sherlock, he had protected him from this! John didn’t blame the other Sherlock, of course, but with the feelings and all… John had just BELIEVED Sherlock was getting jealous, and “his” Sherlock, the all-rational Sherlock, would have never lied for a reason like this! Not that the other Sherlock had lied, it had just seemed like a lie, like something a “normal” human being would do out of jealousy, because this Sherlock had FEELINGS. It was all so complicated, really. John just wanted his Sherlock back. And it hurt. And it was horrible… but that was just the way it was, and there was nothing he could do about it.

After a while, John got up again, threw the burnt food away and made some more. Crying had helped a bit, and he felt calmer now. He would manage this, he would be fine. After Sherlock had died, he had thought it couldn't get any worse. And after the other Sherlock came round he just felt like... if he had survived this, he could survive anything, right? And then there was Mary and then there was hope… And then his hope was shattered again, violently.

His mum had always said, when you were at rock bottom, it could only go up. But firstly, there was no rule for his, and secondly, who said that, when you were at rock bottom, it couldn’t get up a bit and then down again, and that this couldn't hurt even more? No one, really. He just had to learn it the hard way. And John wasn’t a baby, he had been in war, for Christ’s sake, and if he gave up now, well… that was just not what Sherlock had died for. John would just have to try again, stay single for the rest of his life, if he had to, nothing wrong with that. And if the next crisis came along, he could still give up. Just not right now, he had his new Sherlock to look after, after all.


	19. No Way Out

It was good to be back. Even though not as good as Sherlock had expected it to be. He was still in hiding, and while he had always guessed John was suffering, he hadn’t expected him to suffer this much… and he had never wanted to see it with his own eyes. At least not when he couldn’t change anything about it.

Sherlock had gotten the impression that the doctor had been at least a little bit in love with Mary. And he probably had been, it just wasn't what the detective saw. When he looked at John, he saw the pain of losing a dear friend years ago and never really getting over it. Sherlock didn't even have to deduce much to find this out either. He just had to listen to John. Because John Watson, former war doctor and army veteran, was telling stories about his "old friend” like an elderly woman talking about her teenage sweetheart. And the doctor didn’t even seem to realize what he was doing. “Oh those cheekbones, I won’t forget those cheekbones” and “he seemed so ALIVE when he deduced cases, buzzing with energy”, were just some of the striking things Sherlock heard. Contrarily to his nature, he didn’t even point out that John would have had a hard time forgetting cheekbones he had right in front of him.

One evening, when they were both exhausted from the case, from running all over town, just as they used to do, the detective asked his flat mate about Mary and if he missed her. But John just shook his head. “No, I don’t miss her. At least not much. All of my tears have been used up long ago.” This might not be strictly true, but at least the doctor had shed all of his tears on another love.

Even though the doctor never said it, “I loved Sherlock” seemed to resonate in every word. And even though Sherlock had never been a fan of feelings, all he wanted to do was shout back “I love you too". Because if he had learnt one thing from his journey and his years “on the hunt”, it was that John was his reason for living. As stupid as it sounded, it was true. Sherlock had fought for John, he would have died for John – he had faked his death for him, for Christ's sake! But he had also held on for John. No torture had been bad enough for the detective to forget his best friend's face, to not remember his encouraging words, which somehow made it possible for Sherlock to take another blow, survive another hit.

Anger had been omnipresent for the detective, during the last years. And this was what made it even harder for him to keep quiet. Sherlock could survive pain, easily. But he was still hyped up from the hunt, still buzzing, ready to lash out at anyone who even thought of hurting John. The nightmares didn’t make it any easier. Twice he woke up screaming, and once John even heard him and came down to check if he was alright. The detective told him he had had a bad dream about his “brother” and pretended he was going back to sleep, but his heart was beating fast and all he really wanted to do was to shout at John: “They hit me, they hit me so bad, but I survived, I survived for you!”

Like in a bad soap opera really, that notion. So Sherlock decided this had to stop and started taking sleeping pills before going to bed. It made him feel tired in the morning and sometimes the fog needed ridiculous amounts of coffee to be shaken off, but at least the doctor didn’t seem to realize anything.

Solving the case took longer than Sherlock had expected. Whoever this guy was, he was good. And if William was right, Magnussen might not even be his real name. It took days for Sherlock to even come up with a lead, and when he did, the lead wasn't about a man named "Magnussen", but about someone called Christian Solanjeshko, who was now dead, but had looked oddly familiar to the man they were looking for. John laughed, when the detective said it could have been a Russian spy, but Sherlock wouldn't have been surprised by anything at this point. He had known about the existence of different worlds before, but the Doctor had never told him about alphas and omegas… let alone about the fact that there was a world which was so similar to theirs that it had counterparts of them living there.

The lead turned out to be good. There was a warehouse Magnussen (or Solanjeshko) had worked in many years ago and which was now abandoned. It had required a lot of work (mostly legwork) to find the warehouse, but Sherlock was optimistic that they would find something there, maybe even the files Mycroft was blackmailed with. Because people were visiting this warehouse, mostly at night. People which could be trailed back to Magnussen.

Sherlock had tried to talk John out of it, but of course the doctor couldn’t be kept from joining him there. 

“But it might be dangerous," the detective protested.

John laughed. “Since when does this scare me off? Besides, if it could be dangerous for me, it could be dangerous for you. Do you really think I would let you go alone?"

At this, Sherlock almost said something, but then didn’t. Not the right time. Besides, the doctor might be right and he might need him.

***

William followed Sherlock and John everywhere. Mycroft’s men were watching him, of course, and Sherlock’s brother had told him himself how important it was that he stayed away. He hadn’t said how far away, though, and so William sneaked away from his “guards” as often as possible. He never stayed out of their sight for too long, though, to make sure they didn't realize they had "lost" him. This time was different, however. John and Sherlock took a cab, which took them quite a bit away from the city centre, where William had stayed in a hotel room, with his “guards” close-by. The further they got, the more certain William was that he would get into trouble for this. Besides, he hadn’t managed to shake off all of the guards…

***

The moment he stepped into the warehouse, Sherlock knew it was a trap. He wasn’t worried, though, as a trap wasn’t always a good trap, and a good trap was rarely that obvious. "Ok, where are you, Magnussen?" he shouted into the big room the warehouse consisted of. Most of it was already in the dark, as the sun had started to set. “I know you are there! Or don’t you get your fingers dirty; do you only send your minions here to ‘deal’ with me?”

A tall figure stepped out of the shadow, as calm and collected as if he was stepping into his own dining room. Magnussen, then. Behind him, five men appeared, all carrying guns, while Magnussen himself was unarmed. "Drop your weapons," Magnussen told John and Sherlock, "you are outnumbered; there is no point in fighting."

The detective sneered. “I’m never armed.” In his recent past, this hadn’t been always true, but playing the part of William, he had left his pistol at home. John, on the contrary, had a weapon, and only dropped it hesitantly.

“Where are the files?” Sherlock asked, “You can tell us now, you will kill us anyway.” He was just playing for time, of course, knowing his brother would be here soon. Sherlock had secretly sent the message he had prepared for a case like this, as soon as he had sensed there was something off.

Magnussen laughed. “There are no files. I just like to play. But it got boring, you are too easy to trick.”

Plausible, certainly, but not good enough to be the truth, the detective could just feel it. Besides, the line sounded too much like it was stolen from someone else…

Suddenly, a gun echoed through the empty warehouse and John screamed. When Sherlock turned to him, he saw his best friend lying on the ground, pressing his right hand to his chest.

The detective looked up again and right into a set of ice-blue eyes. Magnussen! The real one, this time. It became horribly clear to Sherlock which mistake he had made. Of course it would have been convenient to Magnussen to have his counterpart of this world killed… but it was all the more convenient to him to have that counterpart alive.

John moaned and brought Sherlock’s attention back to him. Against his better judgement, he kneeled down next to the doctor. To have an enemy like Magnussen on eye-level was bad enough, but to kneel right in front of him was practically suicide. It didn’t matter, though. John was dying. And if he wasn’t, Magnusson’s men would make sure he would be soon. Sherlock had failed him. Again.

The detective did something he had never done before in his adult life: He let his emotions take over. He put his hands on top of John’s to put more pressure on his wound and whispered: “I’m sorry, John, I’m so sorry.”

John laughed, in spite of the pain he was obviously in. “There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he said.

“Yes, there is,” Sherlock said, “I’m so sorry I failed you. I should have known. But I was just so stubborn, so sure I was right, always right… even back then on the roof, I was sure I was doing the right thing… I didn’t know I hurt you so much. I never meant to hurt you. I just wanted you to be safe, but I also wanted you to be happy. I’m so sorry, I should have never left you.” Tears were running down Sherlock’s cheeks and there was nothing he could do. Nothing he wanted to do. The exhaustion from the last years was taking over. He just wanted to lie down next to John and sleep.

The doctor didn't even seem surprised of what he was hearing. "So this is it?" He asked. “I'm dying and the last thing I know is fantasizing about you coming back. Could be worse, really."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, too... new chapter in the making and I'll post it soon, I promise!


	20. The Game

The guard who was watching William caught up with him just when he was getting out of his cab. “Hey, where do you think you are going?”

“You can leave,” William told the cab driver, threw some money at him and banged the door shut. The cab driver took off at once, probably annoyed by his rude manner. William started walking towards the warehouse, ignoring the guard.

The man, however, didn’t let himself be shaken off that easily. He came after William and grabbed him by the arm. “You’re not going anywhere without Mr Holmes’s permission,” he declared.

William winced. “Don’t hurt me.”

The guard frowned at that. “Hurt you? I’m not going t hurt you, mate.”

William bat his long eyelashes. “I’m not your mate,” he replied softly, “I’m an omega.”

“A what?” the guard asked.

“He didn’t tell you then… but of course, you’re not good enough for him, he probably thinks you’re not smart enough to keep your mouth shut about this,” William murmured, almost to himself.

“To know what?” the guard asked again, clearly annoyed now.

“I’m kind of special,” William explained and stepped closer to the guard, making sure the man could smell him. The guy wasn't an alpha, but there wasn't a man in this world which could resist Sherlock William Holmes. He looked the guard directly in the eye and said coolly: "I suck cock. And I’m pretty good at it, too.”

The guard laughed. “Yes, sure, that’s your big secret.”

“Well, omega means I’m into dominance,” William explained further, “so your type really turns me on.”

The guard looked down on him and his eyes went wide when he saw the bulge in William’s pants. Getting hard on command was one of the first things omegas learnt. And of course William had guessed right and behind those tattoos and leather clothes lay a very gay heart. The guard swallowed hard. “So what are you saying?” he asked. “You wanna suck me off or what?”

“Oh, I will,” William nodded, “but first you’ll have to do something for me."

The guard frowned. “And what is that?"

“Just let me go in there,” William pointed at the warehouse, "Give me half an hour; if I’m not back by then you can get Mycroft, but I will be, I promise.”

“I can’t do that…” the guard started to reply, but was cut of by William's hot lips on his. Body heat, so easy to control, really. A quick grope between the man's legs, and William was gone, leaving a baffled guard behind.

***

“Enough of this,” Magnussen said harshly, “this isn’t Hollywood. Get up, so I can take you to a more appropriate place to die.”

Sherlock laughed. “You can shoot me right here, so John and I can die together. Like Romeo and Juliet.”

“No,” Magnussen said, “First, you are going to watch your friend die. Then, I will find a slow and painful method to kill you. Romeo and Juliet is much too good for you. Besides, it’s just a story.”

“It's so much more than a story, but your kind will never understand that," the detective replied.

“What’s my kind then?” Magnussen snorted.

“Can I go now?” Solanjeshko shouted from the other side of the room.

“Take care of him,” Magnussen told one of Solanjeshko's men – or his men, probably – who had come over to them.

“You said I can go after I’ve played my role,” Solanjeshko claimed.

Magnussen ignored him, and told his man: “Put him back in his hotel room, and tell him if he ever interrupts me again, he won’t be my pawn anymore. He will be a pawn in the ground."

“Yes, Sir,” the man replied.

Sherlock didn’t hear any of this. He was only focused on John. His John. The doctor had his eyes closed now. His breath was slow. He looked almost peaceful.

Magnussen poked the detective with his shoe. “Hey, I’ve asked you a question! What kind am I? I want to hear it! Tell me to my face!”

The detective looked up. He was tired of this. So tired. “You’re an alpha. You probably came from another world, now you’re here to create havoc, because that’s the only thing you can do. The only thing which makes you happy. You’re a sick man and you probably know it. You just don’t care.”

Magnussen spat at him. His spit landed directly on Sherlock’s face. “Right you are. I am an alpha. Your alpha. You were promised to me. But then you ran away. Nobody runs away from me. I was promised a virgin. You probably aren't a virgin anymore now, coupling with a human, of all things! It's a disgrace. You are pure-bred, the best I could get. And now you've spoilt it all. But you will pay for this. You will pay for all of this."

The detective wiped away the spit on his face. “You didn’t come here for me,” he said, “You’ve been here before; this doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yes, I’ve been here before,” Magnussen said, “I’ve created a place for you. Bought a nice little cottage in the countryside, far away from the noise of the city. I even bought you a dog! And for what? All for nothing! Thought you would appreciate being away from all of the other alphas, but no, you’re just ungrateful.”

Sherlock laughed drily. “You want me to be away from all of the alphas. So nobody can ever get close to me. You even managed to get to another world, to find the perfect place to be alone with me. So smart. And now you are thinking somebody else had me, you want to kill me. Maybe find the second best omega you can think of afterwards, and take him here. Not so smart anymore, but still understandable, in a way. But then you got the wrong Sherlock. Not smart at all. Just plain stupid. You are ordinary, after all.”

Magnussen’s eyes went wide. “What do you mean, not the right one?”

“There are two of us, didn’t you know?” Sherlock replied. Where was Mycroft? He should have been here by now. The detective could see clearer now. This wasn't about John, or him, this was about William. They might still have a chance. John was bleeding heavily, but he might not be dying. The bullet hadn't hit his heart. If he just kept steady pressure on the wound until Mycroft came, the doctor might just be ok.

“The other Sherlock is dead,” Magnussen said, “I’ve made sure of that.”

“What?” The detective couldn’t believe his ears. This couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t be.

“I found an omega willing to go on a journey with me. Easy, really. The man was bored out of his mind and all too eager to find some humans to play with. Your brother had made very sure that he wouldn't play with our citizens too much. So I made him play with your counterpart for a bit, then had him make this world's Sherlock commit suicide,” Magnussen claimed, “So don't pretend you aren't the Sherlock I was looking for. You might be smart, but not even you can bring the dead back from the grave.”

Moriarty hadn't been the man on the very top. It suddenly all made sense. Men at the top rarely committed suicide, at least not if they were on the other side of the law. Cruel, yes, monsters, most definitely, but suicidal? Not leadership material for a gangster boss. And even if Moriarty had died for "a higher cause" ¬ to make Sherlock kill himself and win his "game" ¬ there had to be an emotional reason as well. Nobody killed himself just to win. You had to have the wish to lose, too. And Magnussen was the one who won it all.

“You’re wrong,” Sherlock said.

“I’m sick of your shit,” Magnussen suddenly shouted, took the gun from one of his henchmen, and pointed it at the detective. “To hell with slow death, you’ve cost me enough of my time.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, waiting for his end, this time for real.

A gunshot echoed in the empty warehouse. The second one today. A muffled cry, a body falling to the ground. When Mycroft arrived, there were two of them. One dead, one alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here you were thinking the last chapter had a cliffhanger... *evil laugh* Sorry *clears throat* Writing on, next chapter asap.


	21. I Am The Real

When John woke up, he didn’t know where he was for a moment. Then he realized he was in a hospital. He blinked and saw Sherlock sitting at his bedsit.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” the detective said.

The doctor carefully sat up. His chest hurt quite a bit, but otherwise he seemed to be fine. His head was swimming, but this was probably normal after being out for that long. At least it seemed to have been long to him. “What happened?” he asked.

“They had to operate to get the bullet out,” Sherlock explained, “but fortunately it wasn’t sitting too deep.”

“No,” John said, "I meant what happened with Magnussen? I dreamt the real Sherlock was back."

“I am the real!” Sherlock explained.

The doctor smiled. “No, I mean the one from this world. He said he was sorry.”

“And he is,” William said, stepping into the room.

“There’s two of you,” John said, “Why is there two of you?”

“I am the real!” Sherlock said again.

“You sound like a stuck record,” William remarked.

“Why is there two of you?” John asked again.

William rolled his eyes. “There always have been. Really, you could have realized it earlier. Mycroft was behaving oddly, Molly was behaving oddly, then I started to behave oddly…”

“Wait a second… did you two swap places?” the doctor asked and tried to get up, but was starting to get dizzy, so he sat down again. “I swear to God if I didn’t just have an operation, I would kill both of you!”

“And Mycroft, don't forget Mycroft," William remarked.

“This isn’t funny!” John shouted.

“Don’t get agitated,” William said, worried now, “We’re sorry, we really are, but there was no other way.”

The doctor fumed. "No other way? I waited! For three years I waited and you didn't come back!"

“No,” Sherlock said, “it was me, I didn’t come back.”

“I don’t CARE!” John shouted.

“We should be careful,” William said, “we are really upsetting him.”

“Right you are!” the doctor barked, “You fucking fuckers, you you…”

“Andersons?” Sherlock suggested.

John laughed inspite of himself, tears springing to his eyes.

“I fucking missed you, you bastard.”

“Want to punch me in the face?” Sherlock asked.

“No,” the doctor said, “You looked punched in the face enough when I last saw you.”

“I thought you would die,” the detective defended himself.

“It was you then,” John said, calmer now.

“Yes, it was me,” Sherlock said, smiling at him.

“Oh my GOD!” the other detective shouted.

John and Sherlock both looked at him. 

“Kiss already,” William said.

They all laughed, the tension suddenly gone.

“I don’t kiss with an audience,” Sherlock claimed.

“Oh come on, you git,” John said and pulled him close.

The detective sniggered and gave him a short peck on the lips. But John moved after him and caught Sherlock’s mouth with his own. The kiss, which had started a joke, soon turned serious. They both closed their eyes and kissed as if it was their last kiss on earth… or their first in a new world.

Another person would have interrupted them or left the room, but William just stood there, watching. So this was what he looked like when he was happy. And this was what someone who could make him happy looked like.

He couldn’t enjoy the view for very long though, as they were interrupted by an unexpected visitor.

“So sorry I’m late,” the Doctor excused himself while rushing in, “I wanted to come as soon as I heard an alpha had found his way into this world but there was this guy from Melmac who was causing a ruckus…”

Three pairs of eyes stared at him. “Sorry, am I interrupting anything?" the Doctor asked.

“You need to find me a John!” William exclaimed. John and Sherlock laughed.

“Oh there is one, as a matter of fact," the Doctor said, not in the least confused by this outbreak, "I'll have to warn you though, he's quite the lady’s man."

“Aren’t they all?” Sherlock asked. They all laughed.

“What happened to Magnussen, by the way?” John asked.

“William killed him,” his detective explained.

William winced. “Not the best experience of my life,” he said, hanging his head.

John sighed. “I can relate. You don’t know how much I can relate. All those ghosts…” Sherlock put his arm around him reassuringly.

William looked at John thoughtfully. “You are quite attractive…,” he mused.

“Mine!” Sherlock exclaimed and kissed John on the mouth.

The Doctor looked flabbergasted. “So you are… together now?”

The three others laughed. “Good morning,” Sherlock said.

The Doctor raised an eyebrow at him.

“It’s called feelings,” the detective explained, “I had to get used to it as well. But when you get the hang of them, it’s really practical. You can tell much easier who is sleeping with whom, for example.” John nudged him. “What?” Sherlock asked.

The Doctor laughed. "You want to come with me then?" he asked William.

William thought about this for a while. “I guess I’d better. Can’t watch them getting it on all day long.”

“But not right away!” John protested. “Getting it on?" Sherlock asked.

“Ok I guess I could stay for a few days longer,” William said, “if that’s alright with you, Doctor?” 

The Doctor nodded and started to say something, but Sherlock interrupted him: “Is that fun?”

“What?” John asked.

“Getting it on," the detective explained.

William laughed. “Sure, with the right partner."

“Then I want to do this,” Sherlock declared. 

John just shook his head, but to the others this was immensely funny. As was everything else. And soon the doctor was laughing again, too. It seemed to John that all the tears he had cried now dissolved into laughter. And it was good, oh so good.

**Author's Note:**

> This work has been inspired by: 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MwpMEbgC7DA


End file.
